


Light of Kendali

by Falcolmreynolds



Series: The Golden Knight [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: (that's Eagle), Elves, F/F, Fantasy, Gen, High Fantasy, Knighthood, Knights - Freeform, Magic, Nonbinary Character, Talking Animals, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 09:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 39,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20794508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falcolmreynolds/pseuds/Falcolmreynolds
Summary: Svarla Keshani is rejected for knighthood, something she has trained her entire life for. But just as she's giving up, the Queen is kidnapped by her own Knight, her forces turned against her, and Svarla is the only one free of control - the only one who can save her.





	1. Aftermath

“In life I will guard thee,

In death I will serve thee,

In war I am your sword and shield,

In peace I am the rule you wield…”

The words, once filled with hope and pride, now left a bitter taste in Svarla’s mouth. She’d practiced them for months in preparation of knighthood. She’d trained and studied and tested herself to serve the queen.

And she’d been rejected. The queen had chosen another to be her newest knight, another to stand by her always and be her protector, and the words Svarla had molded into her heart were left to burn out like a dying fire as she watched someone else say them.

She’d refused to even think them. Her journey to the capital had been thrumming with the rhythm of the oath, a chant that accompanied her footsteps, but her walk home was silent. Shameful. How could she have assumed she would have surpassed the knights of the city, with years of training and the best armor and weapons money could buy?

The queen needed the best. She clearly wasn’t the best.

Stupid. Prideful. She’d tried to clear the sour stench of the city streets from her tongue as she breathed in the air of the forests outside the capital province. She’d journeyed for days, festering in her doubt and disgust - that was, until the horse found her.

Queen Padhrudah’s horse.

She’d spotted it flying overhead away from the city, labored wingbeats loud in the still air. It had curved around after spotting her and dropped too quickly to the ground, vanishing behind the hills. Svarla had run to find it.

It had been injured, horribly so; a huge gash had been cut across its flank and there were two arrows in the joints of its wings. She’d approached it cautiously, nervously.

The horse had raised its head. “Please help,” it had gasped, staring at her despairingly. “The Queen’s been kidnapped.”

-

Svarla worked the second arrowhead carefully out of the horse’s feathers, wincing when she felt the hot blood course over her fingertips. She felt the horse flinch and gritted her teeth together.

“Tell me,” she said, in an effort to distract it, “what happened.”

The horse took a deep breath, sides heaving in the firelight. Svarla had led it off the roadway and made camp in the deep undergrowth of the forest, hidden from passerby; the horse seemed terrified of being spotted.

“It was the knight,” the horse said, elegant neck bent in a semicircle, nearly pressing its long face into the dirt. “The knight that Padhrudah selected. He - Sir Ilian, from Ventash - he killed the rest of the knight-hopefuls while they slept so they couldn’t fight them, paid many of the castle staff, and attacked the Queen. She was injured. She’s gone. I don’t know where. The city is frozen in fear. You are the only one that escaped.”

Svarla plugged up the slit in the horse’s wing with a piece of torn fabric. “And what am I to do about this?” she said, trying to comprehend the situation. The Queen’s own Knight had betrayed her. Betrayed her, possibly wounded her, and now he had control of the castle and the city and the country. How? Why?

“Save her,” the horse begged, turning its head to look at her with one dark eye. “Save her, please. She has no one else.”

Queen Padhrudah’s family had died when she was young, assassinated by dark-clad operatives who had never been traced to a particular country. Kendali lay in the center of several profitable trade routes, so it would make sense for any of the nearby countries to try and assimilate it, but all had said the attack was not their fault. Nevertheless, Padhrudah was the sole direct heir to the throne, and the only monarch. If she were gone…

“Ventash?” Svarla said. “Do you think they did this?”

“Sent Ilian to take her? It’s possible.” The horse flinched again as Svarla began to fasten the wrapping around its wing.

Svarla shook her head. “What am I to  _ do _ about it all?”

“Something. Anything. You’re the only knight left.”

“I’m not a knight.”

“You’re better than one,” the horse said.

Svarla went silent, moving from the horse’s wing to the gash on its flank. It was no longer bleeding, and she’d stitched it earlier, but she wasn’t sure if the string would hold. It seemed to be, for now.

“The others have proven themselves untrustworthy at best and evil at worst,” the horse begged her, shuffling so it could look her directly head-on. “You are our only hope.”

“Our?”

“Mine and the Queen’s.”

Svarla pursed her lips. “I can’t promise anything,” she said.

“Just say you’ll try.”

She had to. It was her duty. Even if she wasn’t a knight of the realm, she had to act like one. What kind of knight just gave up at the first sign of trouble? “...I will,” she said, brushing specks of dirt off the horse’s coat. “I’ll try.”


	2. Pathways

They set out the following morning. The horse walked alongside Svarla; it was too weak to carry much, having been shot at from the city walls after making its escape from the stables. The huge, glossy crow’s wings that lay along its black sides were extremely obvious, but any time anyone else came along the road, both Svarla and the horse hid in the forest nearby.

The horse didn’t know what had happened to Padhrudah. She’d vanished after the coup, taken prisoner by Sir Ilian, and no one had seen her for days. Most people thought she was being held in the castle, but the horse thought she’d been taken out of the city.

“Most people do not realize that I am intelligent,” it told Svarla, as they walked along the road, dust coating its hooves and Svarla’s boots. “Most people think I am but a horse. It isn’t well-known that we are creatures who can think and speak, not beasts. So Sir Ilian didn’t think to remove me sooner than he tried to. I saw them take a dark cage, veiled in fabric, to a silent carriage in the courtyard at night. It was pulled by two black horses. They put the cage in and sent it off; Sir Ilian himself saw it out of the castle gates, through the back entrance. It was past curfew, so no one would have seen it go.”

“A _ cage? _” Svarla was appalled.

The horse nodded. “They almost had me pull it, but realized I was her mount, and figured that while the irony would be admirable, the yoke wouldn’t fit.” It curled its lip in disgust. “I wish they had chosen me, so that I might know where she is.”

“We need to figure out where she’s been taken.”

“How?”

Svarla shook her head. “Either someone in the city will know, or we find one of the Nightcallers.”

“...the what?”

“The Nightcallers.” Svarla swallowed. “The elvish dealmakers.”

“I’ve - I’ve never heard of those.”

The Queen’s mount. Of course it hadn’t. “They’re mostly a legend, but a legend with enough truth that I think they might be real,” Svarla told it. “They… they exchange information and service for goods, money, service of your own. It’s a dark business.”

“And you want to deal with it?”

“It’s either them or talking to the city guards,” Svarla hissed, narrowing her eyes - there was dust on the road ahead, and she touched the horse’s shoulder and stepped off the main way. “I don’t think they would answer a question like that!”

“No, certainly not,” the horse murmured, following Svarla away from the dirt and into the undergrowth. “Especially not with your bounty.”

“...my what?”

The horse blinked. “Bounty,” it said. “You’re the only knight Ilian doesn’t control. He wants you dead.”

_ “And you failed to mention this why?!” _

“I forgot.”

Svarla fumed quietly as they vanished into the low trees, putting a screen of greenery between them and the road.

The horse was right. Sir Ilian had indeed put out a bounty on Svarla - she spotted a series of signs being put up along the roadway at the lamp-posts that marked miles. Every time, she tore them down.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the horse advised her, the fourth time she pulled one of the scraps of paper from the wood and crushed it into the dirt with her boot.

“And why not?” she said, glaring at it.

“Someone will notice and figure out either you are around or that you’re working with someone around who pulled it down.”

“You’re overthinking this.” Svarla kicked the crumple into the bushes and scuffed the dirt marks away. “We need to go.

“Where are we going, again?” the horse asked her.

“To find the Nightcallers.”

“Where?”

Svarla looked down the road, narrowing her eyes to see further. “Duskmeadow,” she said. “It’s the principality just outside the capital. It’s its own nation. The Nightcallers are free to do as they please there because it doesn’t belong to Kendali or any other nation, just the elves, and it’s their home.”

“You want to walk into an Elvish principality,” the horse said, “with a human-set bounty on your head and a royal mount at your side?”

“You don’t have to come.”

The horse went with her anyway.


	3. Duskmeadow

Duskmeadow was south of the capital, by a good ways - not quite to Cruscefex, Svarla’s hometown, as she’d had to circle around the principality to reach Ruval, the formal name of the capital city. She’d seen it from a distance on her way around.

It was… foreboding, to say the least. The edges of Duskmeadow were ringed with a thick wall of tangled trees, vast gnarled branches woven together into a thorned tapestry that denied entry to all. There was no easy way in, and there was no easy way out. She’d rarely heard of people entering or leaving Duskmeadow.

The Evening Court did not like people entering or leaving Duskmeadow.

Svarla had heard of parties of dark-clothed elves leaving Duskmeadow, black silk and satin and veils keeping them out of the sun, a thick mist following wherever they went and turning long parades of silent walkers into a mysterious caravan surrounded by black fog, deep purple lights glittering through the haze.

She’d never seen one, not personally - she’d never even seen an elf. Through her entire childhood, Duskmeadow had simply existed, empty, nothing more than a dark mass hidden underneath the murk.

Duskmeadow was set down in a hollow in the earth that stretched for miles, as if it had been scooped out of the landscape. Moisture collected there, and the treetops were always covered by a layer of thick gray mist. The wood of the forest was black and slick with moss and slime, and it was all-encompassing - Svarla did not know where the ‘meadow’ in Duskmeadow was. From what she could see, the entire place was one deep, impassable wood.

It frightened her.

By the time they reached the border of Duskmeadow, the horse had mostly recovered from its wounds. Svarla had even convinced it to occasionally carry something of hers, as much as it disliked the task, but she told it it could leave if it wanted and it preferred to stay. “If you are going to save the Queen,” it told her, time and time again, “I need to be there to help you.”

As good a reason as any, Svarla reasoned, but it certainly was an annoying travel companion.

They reached the hills surrounding Duskmeadow at nearly midday, but as they entered the area, the temperature began to drop, ever so slightly, and the air grew hazy. Svarla didn’t even notice the humidity until it was dripping off of her hair.

“This is by far the least comfortable locale I have ever had the misfortune of traveling through,” the horse told her, as they struggled up one dewey-grassed hill.

“Wait until we’re actually inside,” Svarla gasped back, focused on the ground beneath her boots.

“Have you ever been in there?”

“No! Never.” She gasped in a breath and glanced up as they reached the top of the hill. “I probably wouldn’t have come back out.”

“Then why - ?”

“Because I don’t have a choice.” The two of them crested the hill and beheld Duskmeadow.

The fog was creeping up the sides of the vale in full daylight, heedless of the sun that lanced down upon it. It just served to make the air hotter and sticky, and Svarla swiped one gauntleted hand across her forehead, chest heaving. Beyond the fog, the dark mass of the wood loomed.

She started down the hill. The horse followed her nervously, hooves leaving damp, crushed grass behind it; the road ended at the top of the hill, and there was only meadow grass between them and the wall of trees.

There were no guards here, no one monitoring this break between one realm and another. There was no need. Duskmeadow held its own borders.

Svarla stepped up to the wall, feeling the throb of her pulse in her throat. “Hello,” she called, and her voice seemed to bounce off the dark wood, looming fuzzy and dark. She frowned and tried again. “Hello?”

Nothing.

“My name is Svarla Keshani,” she continued, hoping someone would hear her. Her voice kept scattering away, as if it couldn’t even reach the forest. “And I am seeking the Nightcallers.”

Nothing.

The horse, behind her, sighed. “It won’t work,” it said. “They’re elves. They’re not going to let you in.”

Svarla turned, frowning, to it. “And how do you know that?”

“Everyone knows that.”

She turned back to the forest. “Hey! Listen!” she called, glaring at the wood. “I need to talk to you, and I’m - I’m willing to make a deal with the Nightcallers, because I need them, and I’m willing to pay.”

Her voice didn’t bounce now. She swallowed hard and continued.

“I am Svarla Keshani and I wish to speak to you. Let me in so I can make a deal. The well-being of Kendali rests on my shoulders, and while it may not be your country, what has happened so far will affect you terribly if I do nothing.” She impulsively unsheathed her sword and stepped forward, laying it down in the tall grass. She bowed her head. “Let me in. Please.”

There was a long, still silence. When Svarla looked up, the trees had moved - before her now lay a long, dark path through the fog. She glanced back to the horse.

“I didn’t see it happen,” it said.

Svarla stood, picking up her sword, and slid it back into the sheath. She hadn’t even heard the trees move. How - ?

No matter. This was an invitation. She took a breath, praying this wouldn’t be the last time she saw the sky, and stepped into Duskmeadow.

Here the mist was cool and gentle on her skin. The burning of the sun was instantly gone, blocked out by the twisting branches overhead, and she felt her racing heart slow.

The horse followed her in, ducking its head underneath the branches and picking its way over gnarled roots that twisted through the dark dirt. “I don’t like this very much,” it said nervously, glancing around. “This forest makes me - I don’t like it..”

Svarla didn’t respond. She kept forging forwards, following the faint path between the trees, but the fog made it nearly impossible to see where she was going. She turned and saw the horse framed in the light that shone in through the gap in the trees they’d entered to. It shuffled its wings nervously and Svarla nodded and blinked.

In that second, the gap was gone. The light winked out; the way was shut behind them. There was no going back. Svarla shivered and turned again, facing inwards. In the darkness she couldn’t see anything, so she stepped forwards, stumbling over buried roots and feeling with her hands.

It was minutes, hours perhaps, before she began to see lights. Faint violet orbs, bobbing up and down in the darkness, winding through the trees aimlessly. Then blue, deep at first, then lighter azures and aquas, and then as she looked further she began to see glimmers of greens, yellows, orange… an assortment of colors began to bloom through the fog, blots and haloes of incandescence glowing in the mist.

“Do you see that?” she breathed to the horse. It was still beside her; she felt it moving, heard it tripping over the stones in the dirt as she was.

“Yes,” the horse answered.

“It’s beautiful,” she sighed.

“Don’t let it entrance you,” the horse hissed to her, eyes huge in the darkness. “This is how they capture those that stumble accidentally into their realm.”

Svarla wasn’t even sure it was  _ possible _ to stumble accidentally in, since it had taken her yelling at the wall to get it to open, but she stayed quiet and watched the lights as they went. Pools of color began to light her pathway through the swirls and scraps of fog, puddles of oozing purple and dripping ribbons of emerald that hung from the low tree branches. The horse pressed its wings against its sides, nervous; one strand trailed across the fine feathers of its mane and left a line of bright turquoise behind, and the horse shivered all over and jumped away from it.

With no other choice, Svarla continued to follow the lights, and the horse stayed close by, sometimes bumping into her shoulders in an effort not to be separated from her. It kept flicking its tail, the big whisks of horsehair and the black feathers that sprouted like a raven’s tail from its rear, feathers so long they trailed along the ground as it walked. It was frightened.

The lights grew stronger, more plentiful, painted lines that traced themselves up the trees and glittering showers of glowing droplets that hung from willow branches in curtains like shining beads.

Duskmeadow was dark, dangerous. How was it so beautiful now?

“Don’t look,” the horse whispered in Svarla’s ear. “It’ll enchant you.”

“What a primitive viewpoint from a creature with no education into the ways of elves,” sighed a voice, in Svarla’s other ear.

Svarla jumped so badly she clocked the horse in the jaw as she went for her sword, but when she did, she couldn’t draw it from the sheathe. Looking down she saw that a tangle of delicate vines had grown over the hilt, individually weak but together forming a mat that held her sword securely in place.

The person that had been standing behind her stepped back a pace to avoid her panicked flailing and watched her critically. They were short, dressed in sweeping black robes, with long antennae that swept out from their forehead about half a meter and ended in brightly colored glowing baubles. There were stripes of luminescence on their skin, tucked underneath protrusions of bone and frills, in shades of soft white and pale green and pale blue. Their eyes were a deep violet, and their skin was a pale gray. A bony crest swept back with the antennae, and Svarla could see on their shoulders and arms where spines of bone poked through their skin, where the robes fell in a manner that didn’t catch on the bone. Underneath the silk, she could spot the glint of plates of dark, overlapping armor fit to their form.

“Are you a Nightcaller?” she asked.

The figure actually threw their head back and laughed out loud, showing sharp fangs and a deep glow somewhere in their throat. Svarla flinched at the suddenness of it and felt the horse do the same.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the strange figure said. “I’m not a Nightcaller. Those don’t exist.”

“...what?”

“Those are just another name for members of the Evening Court.” They tipped their head to the side, huge eyes glinting in the low light, face just a bit fuzzy from the fog. Svarla blinked a few times, trying to make out their image clearer, but couldn’t manage it.

“But… I need them,” Svarla said helplessly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” the figure said, with a smile, “you can still get what you want. But there’s no special, magical Nightcallers. Just us, the Court.”

“O-oh.”

“Come on.” They beckoned. “You came in willing to pay, so you’re going to get the chance to. I’m to take you to Glimmergloam.”


	4. Bargain

Duskmeadow was alive with light. The sun was entirely absent - the thick canopy and mist saw to that. Beneath it, the moist forest was saturated with bioluminescence. The elf leading Svarla and the horse through the wood moved swiftly and silently through the undergrowth. Svarla had trouble on the pathway, even with the light.

“Why don’t you take your armor off?” The elf asked her, as they were going. They had to slow down and wait for Svarla to catch up multiple times.

“That’s dangerous,” Svarla said automatically.

“If someone here wanted you dead, you’d already be dead,” the elf said, rolling their eyes. They were perched in the V of a split tree trunk they’d swung up to, waiting for Svarla to reach them. “There’s no need for it.”

“I will keep my armor on, thank you,” Svarla panted.

The elf shrugged. “Suit yourself,” they said, and grinned. “Get it? Like suit of armor?”

Svarla wasn’t sure what to say to that.

The elf led her further and further into the forest. She completely lost track of where she was, bewildered by the lights and shadows of Duskmeadow, and was absolutely lost when the elf said, “Okay, I was being nice earlier, but now you’re gonna  _ have _ to take your armor off.”

“I’m sorry?”

The elf gestured forwards. The path they were on led down to a swift river, and Svarla peered through the mist and saw there was a dark wood bridge leading across the clear water. Each end of the bridge was marked with softly glowing pale green lamps, and after Svarla looked for a few moments she could make out the forms of elven guards standing by the lamps, armed with long staves.

“But…” she stopped, at a loss. “I - I don’t want to -”

“House rules,” the younger elf said, shrugging. “You don’t have a choice anymore. You hand over your sword and armor, or you don’t speak to the Court.”

Svarla had no other option but to unbuckle her armor then and there. One of the guards came forward with a big square of black cloth for her to lay the pieces on; she did, nervously, avoiding his faintly glowing pale orange eyes. Her greaves, gauntlets, bracers, breastplate… everything. Even her sword went.

She laid it down in the center of the cloth, with her belt - she couldn’t get the vines off and had to remove the belt as well - and stood there, heart racing, wearing only her plain under-armor clothes.

“Great!” the elf said, dropping off a branch overhead and landing soundlessly on the soft forest floor. “Now we can go in.”

The bridge thumped quietly when the horse stepped onto it. It was even more nervous now; Svarla kept glancing back to look at what the elven guards were doing with her armor, and she saw the horse doing much the same thing.

It was odd - despite being a beautiful glossy black, with trailing feathers longer than Svarla’s whole body, the horse didn’t look like it belonged here. It belonged in the sun, and looked rumpled and fearful here.

The elven guards wrapped Svarla’s armor up, and that was all she got before she stepped down off the bridge onto the other side and headed through a small archway of pale, slender trees. Beyond them was a courtyard, and she took a sharp breath, wondering how she’d missed all this before.

It was a courtyard, yes - with a stone fountain and a hundred intricate strings of lights running along the undersides of branches overhead, bathing the entire area in a cool glow. Elves strode back and forth between buildings grown from the soil itself, over soft cobblestone walkways, and a fair ways off over some smaller building roofs Svarla spotted a series of tall, straight trees forming a uniform wall of some great building. They were ringed with pathways and strung with vines from which hung fruits that glowed like miniature suns.

“That’s Glimmergloam Keep,” the elf guiding her said, excitedly. “We’re going there!”

They led Svarla and the horse through the city streets. Everything here was muted, muffled, but Svarla still heard conversation and laughter in a lyrical, liquid tongue she couldn’t understand. The elves all had strange lights and markings across their bodies, crests like the one belonging to the elf she was following, horns or antlers sometimes, even occasionally wings. And they all watched her to by in fascination, some even reaching out to touch the horse. It shied away from all contact, whinnying in fear.

The Keep was even larger close-up, and Svarla wondered how no one ever saw its bulk rising from the mists of Duskmeadow from the outside. It was probably some elven magic - they seemed to be able to do much more than she had realized, including build whole cities from nothing but stone and soil and trees. What else could they do?

The young elf led her and the horse up to the Keep and through another archway of pale trees into another courtyard, but this one was smaller, and led to a doorway made of black wood. They paused.

“The Court is there,” they said, voice lowered for once. They blinked and swallowed. There was less mist here; Svarla noticed now that the skin under their fangs dimpled, almost breaking from the weight of the teeth, and that their pale skin was covered in a soft fuzz, like fur. “Be polite. They’re… they’re fair, but they aren’t good.” The paused. “We elves are like that.”

Svarla nodded, walked by, and waited as two elves opened the doors and permitted her an audience with the Evening Court.

The Courtmembers were not uniformly seated at a table, or in chairs in a semicircle, or in any configuration Svarla was used to. No, instead they were lounging on various pieces of plush furniture or - in one case - hanging from the ceiling upside down, wings hugged around themselves like a very large bat.

Actually, that may just have been a very large bat. Svarla tried not to stare.

“Svarla Keshani,” called a voice - it came from one main figure, sprawled across a deep purple velvet and black wood couch, with his head tipped back and his vast, glittering wings draped over everything nearby. “Why do you come to my Court?”

Svarla could not take her eyes off of him. He was dressed in deep black and royal purple clothing, his inhuman face lit under the cheekbones by patches of glowing color and his eyes - all four of them - monochrome luminescent mauve and letting off a soft mist. When he blinked lazily, long dark lashes dispersed the mist, but it gathered again when he lolled his head to the side to look at her.

His wings looked almost like bat’s wings, but they were fragmented into transparent sections that glittered faintly and rustled whenever he moved, like an insect’s. The wings stretched all the way from his shoulders down to his hips, and his clothes seemed to be formed around them. His boots were soft and treadless.

“You already know my name,” Svarla said, desperately trying to remember how to deal with elves, “but I am afraid I am at a disadvantage.”

The Prince laughed. A couple of the other Court members - a spider-like elven woman in a huge ballgown, perched on the wall, with fangs that almost touched her collarbone and claws she was grinding down on a stone she held in her second set of arms, and a languid elf with massive fluffy ears and no eyes - also laughed, grinning as they looked towards the Prince.

“We aren’t  _ faeries,” _ he said, voice dripping with derision. “But at the same time, you  _ offered _ us your name. You don’t get mine for free. I am the Prince.” He raised one hand, six fingers and a thumb, and gestured towards an unoccupied chair. “Sit.”

Svarla did as she was told, perching herself nervously in the plush seat. The horse stood behind her, shuffling its wings again and saying nothing.

“You want something,” the Prince said. “What is it?”

“I need the location of someone.”

“Who?”

Svarla paused.

“These are terms, not parts of a deal,” the Prince said, rolling his eyes. “We already know who it is. I just wanted to give  _ you _ the chance to tell me.”

“The Queen,” Svarla said. “Queen Almera Padhrudah. She’s been kidnapped by her knight and taken somewhere. I have to save her.”

“Well, you don’t  _ have _ to,” the Prince said, “but that’s not the point. You want to know where she is.”

“Yes.” Svarla gripped her knees tightly, feeling strangely light without her armor. She didn’t like it. “Please.”

“What will you pay?”

This is what she had been afraid of: She didn’t  _ know _ what to pay. “I - I can give you service,” she offered.

“Time? I doubt you would survive it.” The Prince shook his head. “Something else.”

She licked her lips. “...what would you accept?”

“Secrets, perhaps,” the Prince said lazily, “or something you can’t afford to lose.”

“Secrets? I don’t have any secrets…” Svarla swallowed. “What about - ah, what about my sword?” She could get a new sword. Right?

“Material? No.” The prince shook his head. “I don’t want something  _ material. _ ”

What to give the elves? What would they take? Svarla racked her brain, focused, calmed herself. She took a breath. “Would… would you take my pain?”

He tipped his head to the side again and stared at her, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Now you get it,” he said, teeth flashing in the semidarkness. Around the edges of the room, low lights glowed steadily, sometimes pulsing brighter or dimming in accordance with some unknown rhythm. “But how would that benefit us?”

“If I lose my pain,” Svarla said, “I’ll never know if I’m hurt.”

“And you’re willing to risk that? For the location of your Queen?”

“Yes.”

The Prince grinned. “Very well,” he said, “I accept.” He pulled himself off the couch and Svarla realized how tall he was - easily a meter more than she was, a ribbed crest sweeping back from his head, gleaming antennae sprouting from his forehead, jawline, brow ridge. He folded those huge wings behind him and stepped quickly over, then reached down and touched Svarla’s forehead.

She didn’t feel anything happen. “You’ll still feel,” said the elven Prince, “but you won’t feel any pain.”

Svarla swallowed. She opened her mouth to speak, and in that moment the Prince drew back his hand and struck her on the chin.

She didn’t feel it. It didn’t hurt. Her head jerked to the side, but she didn’t feel the pain. She looked back to the Prince, shocked.

He smiled down at her. “Your Queen is held at a place called Blackrock Fort in Ventash, north near the border to the Wildlands. She is there now, and she will be there for quite some time. You will find her there.”

“Thank you,” Svarla started to say, but the Prince stopped her.

“I made you a deal,” he said, that same smile still on his lips. “Do not thank me.”

Svarla did not.


	5. Out of Glimmergloam

She was allowed to stay there overnight, whatever that meant in Duskmeadow; she didn’t notice any change in the lighting.

The younger elf led her out to her quarters. “Your face,” they said, when they saw her. “What happened?”

Svarla touched it and felt nothing. “I don’t feel - “ she started, and then realized: She couldn’t feel pain. Not at all. “I made a deal,” she murmured.

“With Him?”

“Yes.”

The young elf shook their head. “Sorry,” they said, quietly.

“What for? I wanted to."

“That’s going to hurt more than you realize.”

Svarla laughed hollowly. “I won’t feel it.”

She was escorted back across the bridge the next day, to reclaim her weapons and armor; she hadn’t left her borrowed room all night and hadn’t slept much, distracted by the lights that swam through the air through the gaps in the tree branches and went slithering across her walls and ceiling and floor as she tried to close her eyes. The horse had been allowed to stay in a stable nearby, and said nothing of its time there save that it was “unnerving at best.”

The younger elf led them out of Duskmeadow, all the way back to the border. It felt like much shorter of a time to get out than it had to get in, and Svarla was almost sorry to leave the soft lights and comforting mist behind. She could see how it would feel… safe, almost, to live here.

But that was not for her. She had a duty to perform, and she was going to do it.

The young elf stopped them at the edge of the woods, which - as they approached - rearranged themselves into a gap through which Svarla and the horse could pass. “Hey,” they said, tapping two fingers together and looking down. “This Queen.”

“Queen Padhrudah?”

“Yeah.” The elf paused. “Why do you wanna save her so bad?”

Svarla frowned. “It’s - It’s my duty.”

“But who made it that?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What do you get out of it?”

“Nothing,” Svarla said, after a moment, “but I have to do it. I can’t  _ not _ do it. I’m the only one who can save her and prevent her kingdom from being run by a usurper from another country. I - I  _ have _ to.”

The elf paused. “Huh,” they finally said, with a shrug. They turned and walked back, into the forest. “Well, good luck,” they called, over their shoulder, and then they disappeared into the trees.

Svarla stepped out into the light and had to squint for a good five minutes before she adjusted to the hazy light outside. The horse seemed in a similar state of discomfort, mantling its wings over its head to keep its eyes free of the light.

(Later, Svarla found a still pool of water in the nearby forest and looked into it. Her face was bruised on one side, blotched with purples, and when she tenderly poked the skin, she felt nothing. Nothing but fear, anyway.)

Blackrock Fort, in Ventash. In  _ Ventash. _ So she’d been right about Sir Ilian’s intentions. He wanted to topple Kendali, have Ventash take over it. And she was betting he wouldn’t stop there; add together the territories of Ventash and Kendali, and Esterly would be in a very awkward position, almost completely hemmed in by two countries bent on domination and an unforgiving coast.

This was bad. She had to find Queen Padhrudah, and fast.

The horse seemed to understand. “We need to get to Blackrock Fort,” it said. “We - we  _ have _ to.”

“Can you fly us?”

It exhaled, a gusty  _ whoof _ of breath. “Not with all your armor,” it said, eyeing Svarla critically. “I can’t carry all of that and you. I can’t. It’s too heavy.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a queen’s mount, not a warrior’s!” The horse pawed the ground. “You’re going to need better armor than that.”

Svarla pursed her lips. If only she had thought of it sooner, when she was still in Duskmeadow. It was too late to go back now, but she was sure that the elven armor her guide had been wearing was light, and if she could have gotten a set…

No. Too late now. She turned to the north. “We’d better walk, then,” she said grimly.

“Can’t you get new armor somewhere else?”

“No! It’s  _ expensive, _ I can’t just find it anywhere.” This armor was a treasured set that had been fitted for her. She couldn’t afford anything else, and she didn’t want to give up what she had. “We have to walk.”

The horse tossed its head. “I hope this doesn’t cost us.”


	6. Northward

Their journey north was harrowing, to say the least. Svarla tore down posters everywhere she could with her image and bounty on it, and she and the horse had to flee the road every time anyone came along. It was frustrating that they couldn’t fly - the horse couldn’t even take to the air for risk of being seen, since now there was a note out that it should be captured and returned to the Queen, who of course was safely in the castle giving orders through her most loyal knights.

“Disgusting,” Svarla muttered, after reading one such announcement posted to a small town’s newsboard. “I’m - this is horrible.”

“We must hurry,” the horse said.

They had to hurry on foot. Arcing around Ruval was probably the hardest part, trying to skirt past the capital city without being noticed by any of the guards and soldiers that patrolled the area. Every time Svarla caught sight of the palace, she felt her blood burn in her veins; every part of her wanted to go and challenge Sir Ilian there and then, draw her blade on him and slay him where he stood.

But she would never get close, of course, so there was no point in that.

No, they skirted Ruval to the east and headed northwards, towards Ventash. But to keep away from Ruval, and for safety, they would have to leave Kendali.

The city on the border of the Wildlands was called Spire Ridge, and was less of a city and more of a series of buildings and homes strung out across a craggy set of mountaintops that watched for danger from the northeast. It was isolated and distant, and thus had heard nothing of the happenings of Ruval and the disappearance of the Queen.

They would, however, recognize the horse as the symbol of the Padhrudah family if they saw it, so Svarla and the horse split up. Svarla would purchase provisions for the wildlands, and the horse would fly around and meet her on the other side.

It took her longer than expected - her funds were meager at best, and she did what she could in terms of bartering, but she still had to help build part of a house before she had done enough work to pay for the food she needed to take with her. The people of Spire Ridge did not ask her many questions, for which she was grateful… but she had a feeling they would remember her if asked.

The horse found her in the Wildlands the day after she’d gotten through. “What took you so long?” it said, as it coasted in for a landing after several flyovers. She could tell it was pleased to be back in the air - it was able to fly freely outside of Kendali, and it kept stretching its wings in the sunlight and flapping them.

“I had to pay for food,” Svarla told it.

“Why can’t you just hunt for it?”

“Do I look like a hunter to you?” Svarla put her hands on her hips. She didn’t know how to hunt, barely knew how to trap - a rudimentary snare was the best of her knowledge - and while she did know how to dress an animal, she wasn’t confident in her ability to do it cleanly.

The horse shrugged, shuffling its wings. They were starting to look a bit ratty. Svarla wondered how it did that. “I don’t know, I just assume you know things.”

“Why - never mind.” Svarla shook her head and shouldered her pack, looking northwards. “We just need go to.”

The mountains extended northwards, but crumbled from a mountain range into a dizzying maze of dry, rocky highlands and sharp stone peaks and pits. The scree on the steeper slopes was razor-edged, and Svarla soon had nicks and cuts all over her hands, to say nothing of the lacerations the horse sustained on its hocks and legs.

“This is awful,” the horse complained, skating perilously down a loose hill. “I want to fly again.”

“So fly, but don’t lose me,” Svarla told it.

There was a road to follow - the main road through the area - but it wasn’t well-maintained. There were villages in the Wildlands, but they were disconnected from Kenali and Ventash. Svarla felt comfortable showing her face.

The roads between the villages were better than the roads leading  _ to _ them. Those Svarla and the horse could walk on comfortably - sure, they were uneven and barely cut from the stone, but at least they weren’t loose slides of slate that tore Svarla’s hands to shreds even through her leather-palmed gauntlets.

Midday on one of these roads they found a scene of carnage.

The horse sensed it first, nostrils flaring. “Blood,” it said, narrowing its eyes forward. “I smell blood.”

“...that’s bad?” Svarla said, hesitantly.

“Maybe.”

They kept going, rounding the bend into the wind. Svarla spotted a bright blotch of color against the drab landscape and sucked in a breath; it was brilliant red in the sunlight, vibrant against the gray stone and brown earth of the highlands.

She couldn’t help herself - she broke into a run, armor clanking. The horse trotted beside her, glancing around as they approached.

There was no movement anywhere. Svarla reached the scene and slowed to a halt, staring - the main feature of the disaster spread out before her was a cart fully tipped onto its side, several bags and crates scattered across the uneven roadway. Blood was soaking into the boards; flies were collecting now, both there and on the corpses of the two horses that had pulled it and at least four people.

‘At least’ was the best Svarla could do for a count, because they’d been shredded apart, and she lost track of the limbs immediately. She fought for control over herself for a moment and took a shaky breath.

“What happened?” the horse said, so quiet Svarla could barely hear it. It was clearly horrified, neck pulled back and the feathers on its wings fluffed up. It danced nervously in place on the gravelly road surface.

Svarla closed her eyes, then opened them, and took another look at the scene.

One overturned cart, two horses out front killed by carefully-placed arrows - into the big vein at the throat, into the eyes. But there were also missed shots, like the arrow in the flank, or the scrape where one had just nicked the withers and missed otherwise. There were bags everywhere, full of pieces of a household, and goods. And there were roughly four dead people, humans from the looks of it. But who? Who had done the killing?

Svarla stepped carefully over an arm and into the sticky half-dust soil between the corpses. They were wearing armor, but…

That was odd. Svarla peered closer, trying not to breathe in. That was an Esterly breastplate, with the landing seabird emblazoned in the leather. And that, there, that was the silver lionness of the Adalantine family, far more southern - from the plains on the edge of the Chalavan Empire. Here was a generic rusty iron greave, one of two, but the style  _ was _ Imperial - this was from that same Empire, even further south.

“Raiders,” Svarla said.

The horse looked over, startled. “But if they attacked, why are they dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“And where is whoever was driving this cart?” The horse glanced around. “If they killed the owner, why didn’t they take the goods? Did the raiders drive this cart?”

Svarla snorted. “No. They don’t take carts. Too much to work with.”

The horse shrugged, glancing around. “Are there tracks?”

A good thing to search for. Svarla began to circle the scene, staring into the dirt. And there were tracks - at the edges of the roadway, footprints were pressed into the dry grass, and dust and dirt had been scuffed up, along with the smaller chunks of gravel. In a few places there were deeper gouges in the dirt, as if something had dug into it - no sword or scythe, though. Something rounder and stronger.

“What can you make of this?” Svarla asked the horse, pointing.

“Nothing,” it told her flatly.

Hm. Fair. She narrowed her eyes at the blood. “Look,” she murmured, stepping towards the edge of the road. Several spatters led off and away into the high, tumbled rocks.

“Svarla?” the horse said, behind her, in an odd, strained voice. “You may want to see this.”

“I think someone went this way,” Svarla said, looking up towards the stone.

“Svarla, this one is missing his heart,” the horse said.

She turned, startled. “What?!”

The horse was staring down at an eviscerated torso. Svarla hurried over, wincing as the sticky, drying dirt sucked at her boots, and joined it.

The ribcage of this raider had been shattered and torn open. The sternum had been bashed to fragments and scraped away, the ribs wrenched outwards. Within the chest cavity lay a gaping hole above the lung where the heart should have been. Scraps of flesh mingled with torn fabric and slivers of leather and treated hide, all scattered across the pebbles.

“That’s bad,” Svarla finally said.

“Yes,” the horse agreed.

There was a moment of silence, and then a distant scream. Both of them jerked their heads up and stared in the direction it had come from - through the rocks, off the same way as the blood Svarla had seen.

“Go,” she said.

The horse turned and spread its wings, leaping into a canter to try and get airborne. Svarla ran, wincing as she stepped on what might have been a hand and the bones crunched between her metal boot and the rock beneath. Blood led in a spotty trail off the road. She followed it as best she could, trying to rush as she searched for broken branches and scrapes against the rocks.

She heard no other sounds, but it was obvious when she reached the end of the tracks. She sprinted around a sharp bend in the path and nearly fell over her own feet in her haste to stop.

The rocks fell abruptly into a tiny hollow, dusty gravel coating the bottom of it and gnarled tree roots lining the sides. A few junipers overshadowed this cauldron, shielding it from the direct heat of the sun at all but noon.

Sprawled inside the hollow was a bandit, spine clearly broken; his legs were facing down, knees to the gravel, but his torso had been twisted towards the sky. Crouched on top of him was… some type of creature.

Its form was long and sinuous, completely covered in mottled brown and dark gray feathers splashed with white. Right now, they were also spattered with blood. The hind limbs were long and thin, clawed and scaley, three toes and a dew claw on each. The forelimbs were long wings, though where the second joint on a bird may have been adorned with feathers, on this monster it came to a thumbed and fingered hand before extending to a proper wing. Its tail was long and thin, whiplike towards the end and coated in equally thin feathers, like the horse’s mane, and the body was covered by thicker, broader ones. The neck was long and mobile and the head was like that of an eagle, with a large, sharp beak and feather crests adorning the sides. 

It heard her appear and whirled. She stared, holding her breath.

The eyes were gray… but they did not look like the eyes of any bird Svarla had ever seen. No, these eyes, down to the faint black lashes ringing the top lid and the outer portion of the bottom, were humanoid.

It had torn the bandit’s chest open and was in the process of devouring something warm and bloody - from the looks of it, his heart. It hissed at Svarla.

For a terrifying second, she thought it would leap at her. She stayed still, eyes wide, and waited. It used one humanoid hand to place the rest of the heart in its beak and horf it down.

“I won’t attack you,” Svarla said.

It stared at her.

She lifted her hands, open. “I won’t hurt you.”

Now that she got a look at it, she could see that there were arrows protruding from the creature’s hide. Dark blue matted the finer feathers of its down.

“I can help you,” she said, and took a careful step down into the rocks of the hollow.

It screamed at the top of its lungs, flared its feathers, and whirled, leaping away into the rocks. A few drops of dark blood remained on the dusty hollow ground, mingling with the bright red of the bandit. Svarla looked up in time to see it launch off a rock and spread those massive wings, coasting low over the rocks and vanishing instantly from her sight.

She let out a breath, trying not to look at the mutilated corpse of the bandit. He was young, blond, a northerner; probably from Ventash or the Wildlands. She left him lying in the sun. There was nothing she could do for him.

She returned to the road. The horse, overhead, saw and landed when she reached the cart again, trotting over the gravel and coming to a halt before it could get its hooves in the blood. “That was something,” it said.

Svarla nodded. “I wonder,” she started, and didn’t say anything else.

They set out heading north again. It was only an hour before they came across a small family walking the same direction: a mother and two sons. They seemed exhausted and were hauling several bags with them, but they didn’t have traveling packs.

Svarla stopped near them, ignoring the horse’s impatient dancing. “Pardon me,” she asked, too suspicious not to ask, “but was that your cart we saw back there on the road?”

“Aye,” the woman said, nodding. There was dirt smeared across her brow. “What… what happened to it?”

“The horses are dead, but the cart is operable, if overturned,” Svarla said. “Did you kill those raiders?”

“Nay,” the woman said, and went silent. She swallowed hard and looked down.

“Who did?”

Silence.

“I am a warrior with a knight’s training,” Svarla told her gently. “I would not harm you for anything you say. Whatever happened, it is for the best that you survived.”

“A monster,” one of the children spoke up, high voice thin. “A big monster! It killed them all.”

“It jumped out when the horses started making noise,” the second child said. “Very big an’ loud, it was, all fluffy an’ strong.”

That was… a description, of a sort, and it matched what Svarla had seen. She turned back to the woman and raised her eyebrows. “Ma’am?”

“It appeared,” she finally admitted. “Out of nowhere! As soon as those - those marauders fired into our horses. It came crashing down out of the sky and looked right at us, and then… didn’t hurt us. Not even a bit. And it attacked the raiders! It let us go. Protected us, even. Put out its big wings so we didn’t get hurt.”

Svarla was thrown off by this. A monster protecting civilians? Yet… the feel she’d gotten from the beast was not that of a mere animal. There was something more there.

She only wished she knew what.


	7. Eagle

Haldfel, the village Svarla and the horse reached with the young family, was as dismal as it was dirty. Every house was coated in a fine white dust, and the people were quiet, battered by the sunlight and wind.

The family found their way into a house on the outskirts of the village, and offered to let Svarla stay with them; an offer she graciously accepted, nodding to the farmer woman's wife and stepping through the doorway.

Their home was sparse, but comfortable, much cleaner than the outside. Svarla laid her things down and set out to inspect the village.

Mainly, she wanted to know what they knew of the creature she'd seen… and the answer was nothing.

“Don't know about no hill creature,” about half of them said. “Heard it was a killer, dangerous ‘n’ evil,” the other half said.

Svarla was frustrated. Nobody had any concrete information for her, and she began to feel like perhaps they were intentionally misleading her.

Until she got back and the farmer woman's wife overheard her speaking. “The winged beast we've seen on the horizon?” She asked, when Svarla tried to ask the farmer woman for better details of the beast. “The one that attacked Elem?”

“Yes… do you know something about it?”

“I'd ask the elves.” Elem's wife shrugged. “They may know more.”

“...the elves?” Like in Duskmeadow?

“In Skyhaven.”

Svarla paused.

Queen Padhrudah was in danger. But this creature… there was just something about it that tugged at her mind. “What is Skyhaven?”

“Elvish lands,” Elem's wife said. “To the southwest, against the mountains. Not into Kendali at all, not into Ventash neither. They might know more. They've got all sorts there, feathered folk, an’ that may have something to do with the monster.”

Did they have time to try and figure out what the beast was? Svarla decided to skirt westward and, if she came across Skyhaven while heading for Blackrock Fort, then that would be a fine coincidence. If not, she would not go searching for it.

Two days after that she was heading along a roadway when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and spotted the very same creature as before, crawling over the rocks. 

“Hello!” She called, and it skittered away and took flight.

She noticed it after that. It was shadowing them, but it seemed… subdued. It wasn't hostile. Svarla tried to get a good look at it, but it was too swift.

It got colder as they went north. Svarla built fires at night, though she didn't have much food to cook, and huddled close to their warmth.

One night she looked through the flames and saw two gleaming gray eyes staring back.

“Hey,” she said softly. “It's you.”

The creature eyed her, silent, bulk invisible in the rocks.

“Don't be afraid,” Svarla told it. “I won't hurt you.”

Slowly the huge creature came into view, creeping forwards on wide wings and scaled legs. The strange human hands unnerved Svarla, but she kept still as the creature pulled it's entire bulk into the firelight.

It rounded the fire and pressed itself low to the ground, making no sound. Svarla watched it and suddenly spotted the snapped-off remnant of an arrow sticking out of the creature's shoulder, and around where the wood sank into the flesh there was a patina of shiny ooze. The wound was festering. When the beast moved, it moved as if it were in pain.

“Oh, no,” Svarla breathed. “You're hurt - please, let me help you.”

The beast pressed itself even lower down, the feathers on its chest scraping the dirt, and edged closer - close enough to touch. Svarla watched it push itself close enough for her to reach out to the arrow wound.

This was only one of many - were the other wounds alright? She couldn't tell. She spotted another shaft buried in its side, also broken off. How many more were there?

Focus. The creature laid its head down on the soil and Svarla very carefully reached out and brushed her fingers across its feathers.

It shuddered, a tremor that ran the length of its whole body, but it stayed where it was. Svarla touched it again, then laid both hands on its hide. The feathers were soft and smooth, but by the infected wound they were matted, dirty, even plucked out. Svarla could see where part of the flesh had begun to rot and been ripped away from the healthy muscle.

She sucked in a breath. This was going to be difficult.

It was. It took her hours, and multiple skins of fresh water, but she managed to remove the rest of the shaft and the arrowhead, and cleanse the wound before cutting away the rest of the dead flesh with her dagger and packing it with a poultice to prevent further infection. Then she pulled the three other arrows from its hide, whispering soothingly to it the whole time. It was tense and frightened as she worked, clearly in pain.

When she finished, she dropped the rag she'd been using to clean and her dagger to the side. “Don't stress it,” she said. “I've finished, and you should be -”

She didn't get any further - the creature exploded off the ground in a flurry of brown and gray feathers, screaming as it went, and vanished into the night.

“...alright,” Svarla said, cross, staring after it.

The horse has been hiding. It emerged now. “Horrifying,” it said.

Svarla shook her head and went to sleep.

The next morning, Svarla discovered a freshly killed doe lying between her tent and the burnt-out fire. She was baffled: the deer had been killed quickly and cleanly, its neck snapped. There were deep talon marks on it where it had been carried and dropped here, silently, some time in the night.

A… gift? A payment? The talon marks seemed to match up with the hind legs of the creature. It was smart. It wanted to thank her. It gave her food.

Svarla immediately set about butchering the deer as best she could. There was a slash across its neck and most if the blood seemed to have been drained already, so that was helpful, but it still took her a few nervous hours to cut it up completely, re-stoke the fire, and cook the venison to take it with her.

The horse carried it, and hated it. “I cannot believe,” it spat, as Svarla loaded the venison into makeshift bags slung across its back, “that you are making  _ me, _ the royal mount of the Queen of Kendali, haul  _ cooked meat. _ ”

“Do you want me to starve?” Svarla argued. “I'm not just going to leave  _ free food _ when it's been given to me!”

“For all you know, that monster was going to come back for it. This delay has likely already cost us valuable time.”

“We're going now,” Svarla grumbled, “and unless you can turn back how the sands of time have fallen, our course is set. We're leaving.”

They went. Svarla had plenty to eat, thanks to the deer, and for a few nights she didn't see the creature as they headed north.

One night, as they made late camp, she saw it land in the rocks in the fading evening light and make its way through the rocks to her. She saw it peer into the hollow clearing she was in, and when she caught its gaze, she nodded to it.

“It's alright,” she told it, softly. “It's okay.”

The horse backed away, against the hollow wall. The creature didn't even look at it - its eyes were on Svarla. It crept inwards, curling around the fire again, and this time lay down, stretching its long legs out on the rock.

“Hey, welcome,” Svarla said. “Did you bring me the deer?”

The creature nodded.

“Okay, cool,” Svarla said. “Thank you.” Holy shit. It understood her, and knew how to nod in response to something. It was definitely intelligent. She held out a hand. “Can I check your wounds?”

It shuffled over as it had before. She laid her hands on its shoulder and parted the feathers that were growing back there - the wound was healing now, the worst one, slowly growing scar tissue over lost flesh and skin. The other arrow-scars were healing as well, much more quickly.

Far too quickly for an ordinary creature. Svarla wondered why and how.

She patted the creature's soft feathers. “Doing much better!” She told it, smiling.

It blinked at her, those strange humanoid eyes making her want to shiver. She suppressed the urge and wondered instead if she could touch this creature’s neck and face. It looked so soft - but, no, this was an intelligent beast.

That night, she did not. The following two nights, she did not. The fourth night after that, when it shuffled over to her, it carefully nudged her hand with its face.

Startled, Svarla reflexively ran her palm over the feathers on the creature’s head, and was stunned when it pressed the top of its skull up against her palm and slitted its eyes, flicking the feather crests a tad bit out of pleasure. Svarla had watched this thing eat someone’s raw, still-beating heart.

And here it was, bumping its head into her fingers, and - she almost thought - purring?

The feathers were soft, and its skin was brilliantly warm underneath them. She scratched behind the feather crests and listened to the thing rumble gently by her feet. Fascinating, she thought, and tried not to be too frightened of it.

It stayed in her camp that night, curled around the entire site, and two days later - as they were nearing the border of Ventash - when she woke up, it wasn’t there.

In its place, curled on the ground near the fire, was an elf, entire body coated in soft feathers with magnificent crests sweeping backwards and patterns of scales and downy quills running across an otherwise humanoid face. She had no wings, but Svarla recognized her hands as those of the creature. She was clad in a simple set of brown robes, no armor or weapons, not even boots - her feet were small, humanoid, with a faint patterning of scales across the top. Her eyes were ringed by thick black lashes, and when Svarla stepped up to her, she blinked them open to reveal calm gray eyes with round pupils that contracted instantly.

She scrambled backwards, eyes wide, chest immediately heaving. “Oh,” she said, staring at Svarla.

“Hello,” Svarla said, staring right back at her. “You must be, uh, be the, uh…”

“...that’s me,” the elf said. The feather crests on the side of her head and the top fell back - she was afraid, perhaps - and revealed the small, pointed ears of an elf poking through the feathers. They were pressed close to her skull, surrounding open ear holes like those of a bird. “Uh.”

“I didn’t know you were an elf,” Svarla said.

“I’m not,” the elf said.

Svarla folded her arms.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“...you’re the same as the creature, though, right?” Svarla said, struggling.

“...yeah.”

“Can you… explain that?”

“No.”

She glared at the elf. The elf glared back.

“I’m going across the border into Ventash to rescue my queen,” Svarla told her, without blinking. “Do you want to come with me?”

The elf held her gaze for a moment, then dropped her eyes to the stone. “Yes,” she said, quietly.

She only gave Svarla one name: Eagle. Svarla managed to tease a story out of her, bit by bit, hour by hour, day by day as they headed westward towards Ventash and out of the wildlands. She was an elf, yes, but she was a therianthrope, a shapeshifter who couldn’t control their forms. Her creature-body was one she only had sometimes, and she was rarely able to leave it behind. On the rare occasions she could, she was constantly fighting to keep herself out of it.

Three times, Svarla saw Eagle switch forms. It was a startling, sudden, and horrifying transformation - the first time, Eagle cried out and doubled over, falling to the ground. Svarla had run towards her, but she’d held up a hand, keeping the knight away, before there was an explosion of feathers and the high-pitched scream of a bird. Svarla had covered her face with one arm and, when she’d lowered it, she’d seen the winged creature crouched on the ground.

Eagle was entirely unable to control this process. She seemed prickly about it, to the point where mentions of it made her snap and fluff her feathers out - at least, when she could speak. When she was in the monster’s body, the best she could do was draw letters in the dirt with her fingertips.

“So what,” Svarla asked finally, while Eagle was humanoid, “do you need the hearts for?”

“The… hearts?”

Svarla swallowed. “You eat hearts,” she replied, softly. Eagle frowned at the road, reflexively balling up her fists and stretching her fingers out.

“Power,” she said.

The admission took Svarla by surprise. “Ah - what?”

“They give me power. It’s life. I can use it.” Eagle narrowed her eyes to slits. “For lots of things.”

“What - no!” Svarla shook her head, horrified. “That’s - that’s - I don’t even…. That’s  _ wrong!” _

Eagle just shrugged.

The border between Ventash and the Wildlands was guarded by soldiers and a mottled gray stone wall, topped with iron. Here they were fairly close to Blackrock Fort, at least… as far as the old map Svarla had told her. She doubted a fort could move, so it was likely still accurate. It was the  _ border _ she was worried about.

It was in much the same place as it was marked, but there were more guards than there should have been. Why? The Wildlands weren’t that dangerous, not in this area. Go further north, to where they encompassed the Winterwood, and that was a different story… but here? There was no need. So why…?

“Someone must have realized you were coming through this way,” the horse murmured to Svarla, as she crouched low in the bushes on a ridge far from the wall and peered at the wall from a distance. Her eyesight was not as good as the horse’s, and certainly not as good as Eagles, and she was relying on them to tell her what they saw.

“There’s humans walking all over it,” Eagle said again. “Everywhere. Do you want to go across it?”

“I need to,” Svarla said.

“Can’t you fly?”

“No. I’m human.”

“Oh.” Eagle slumped. “Right.”

The horse pawed the ground. “I could try to draw attention away by flying over,” it offered.

“And then what?” Svarla muttered. “I scale the wall while they aren’t looking? That’s never going to work.”

“Do you have any  _ better _ ideas?”

“We could kill them,” Eagle said.

“No!”

Svarla narrowed her eyes at the wall. “What else do you see up there? We might be able to use something.”

“Like what?”

“What’s that little building there?” Svarla pointed. Eagle narrowed her eyes.

“It’s full of sticks,” she finally answered. “Sticks, and there’s a bowl hanging from the roof.”

“It’s a signal fire,” the horse said, shaking its head. “If something is seen, the guards here light it and call backup.”

“...which would divert it from where we are,” Svarla said.

“No,” the horse said.

Svarla raised an eyebrow.

“Damn it,” the horse said.


	8. Over the Wall

Svarla huddled in the bushes, waiting. The darkness was nearly impossible to see through, but Eagle said she could make out shapes in the darkness. Her eyes shone when light reflected into them, shining like a cat’s.

The horse was going to fly her up to the wall, above it, and have her drop down onto it. Then she was to light the signal fire and climb off the wall. Once the soldiers had been diverted several sections down, Eagle and the horse were going to kill or incapacitate the remaining soldiers near Svarla and lower a rope for her.

This was all much easier said than done.

Svarla caught sight of the horse’s dark form sweeping up out of the rocks, heading away from the wall with Eagle’s small form on its back. It vanished into the cloudy night.

_ Thank you, Kishara, for the clouds, _ Svarla thought, closing her eyes for a second. The sky goddess had favored them tonight.

And she waited. The horse vanished into the clouds, and she didn’t see it go over - she didn’t see anything happen, not until the signal fire down the wall blossomed into flame unexpectedly, too far away for her to actually see Eagle moving, but she did see the blot of the horse’s bulk go skimming across the dark stone of the wall before vanishing into the tangle of shadowed rocks at the base of the fortification. There was shouting on the wall, and Svarla watched the pale stone frantically.

There - the horse shot upwards and flared its massive wings, landing at the top of the wall. There were a few cries, but Eagle whipped off its back and down onto the top, and the cries stopped as abruptly as they had started. Svarla saw the dark-armored form of one man flipped off the edge of the wall and winced as his body bounced off the rocks below and went clattering away into the ravines.

“Quickly,” Eagle hissed from the top of the wall, and Svarla spotted a rope thrown over the edge. She hurried out from the rocks and waited impatiently as it fell to her, then grabbed on and began to hoist herself up the wall.

Someone was pulling on it, helping her. Who? Certainly not Eagle. She ascended as quickly as possible, the rough hemp grating against her gauntlet palms, and pulled herself over the roof, panting.

To her surprise, she saw the horse trotting back; the rope was looped around its neck. It had been pulling her up. “Better hurry,” it said, glancing back. “We don’t have much time, and they most certainly have heard us by now and are heading back.”

Svarla’s sword sheath grated against the stone. She gasped for air and staggered over to the far rampart, glancing down - there was a stairway leading to the stone on the other side, alongside the wall as it grew wider and extended in some places to form low buildings. They needed to get beyond this, and quickly. “We’ve got to go,” she wheezed, and immediately searched for the quickest way down.

The horse nodded. “I’m gone,” it said, and spread its wings, leaping first up onto the squared crenellations of the wall and then into the air, flapping a few times. It vanished almost instantly into the darkness.

Eagle sighed. “Come on,” she said. There was blood on her hands and wrists; Svarla chose not to look at the few dead men that lay across the walltop. “I don’t even have time to get their hearts. We need to go.”

Her businesslike tone made Svarla shiver, and she nodded and hurried to the stairs, starting down them. Every clang and crash of her armor made her wince.

Shouting on the walltop grew nearer. “Hurry,” Eagle snapped. “Hurry!”

“I’m _ hurrying, _” Svarla muttered back. “This armor is heavy!”

Eagle reached a switchback in the stairs and leaped off, landing soundlessly on the dirt below. She fell oddly, as if she barely weighed a thing and the size of her body simply resisted the air, drifting downwards rather than dropping. Svarla couldn’t even complain to herself; she had to save her breath for sprinting down the stairs and onto the rocks below, then out towards where the highlands began to fade into the northern plains and forest.

“Go!” Eagle shouted, and then Svarla heard an arrow whiz past. She caught her breath, terrified, and kept running. There was a scream - she glanced back in time to see the horse plow into an archer on the walltop and keep flying, huge wings battering the attackers, and then she rounded a hilltop and sprinted out of sight.

“We’re not safe,” she managed, heaving in breath after breath. “They’re going - they’ll search. The area. All night.”

“I know,” Eagle replied, looking back towards the wall. “Get into the forest.”

“Why… there?”

“The trees.” Eagle closed her eyes and stood for a moment, then growled to herself and opened them. “Can’t shift,” she muttered, and hunched her shoulders. “Time to run.”

They ran. The horse went shooting overhead after a few minutes, arrows missing it repeatedly in the darkness. The archers were incapable of hitting a monochrome black, aerial, moving target in the middle of a cloudy night.

The horse was keeping them distracted. Good. Svarla hadn’t even asked it to _ do _ that, it just had. How selfless.

It must really want to rescue the Queen.

Eagle and Svarla made it across a lower meadow and into the crowded lower branches of a cool pine forest. It was summer, so the entire place wasn’t buried in snow, but Svarla knew that if it were winter, they’d be struggling through drifts taller than her right now.

“Trees smell,” Eagle explained, glaring at one. “Too much for dogs.”

Ah. They wouldn’t be tracked here. Svarla didn’t argue. She followed Eagle through the undergrowth and short, sticky branches, tripping over fallen logs and buried roots. The darkness was near all-encompassing, and Svarla found herself wishing she had the lights of Duskmeadow to guide her tonight.

But it was just her and a therianthrope, charging through the darkness. Sometimes she didn’t even feel the roots she tripped over - and that, she knew, was the Prince’s end of her deal taking hold of her, preventing the pain, leeching it from her.

They kept going through the darkness. After a time Eagle stopped, looking back, and said, “Keep walking. They’re not far but there’s no need to run.”

Svarla nodded, panting. “Okay,” she managed.

The forest began to grow colder around them. She saw Eagle fluff her feathers up to keep in her heat, narrowing her eyes against the darkness. The clouds cleared to reveal an empty sky with no moon, only the stars that circled gently in their dance, watching.

The horse found them just after daybreak, as they made camp in a small hollow in the podzol and stone of the forest. “That was certainly exhilarating,” it told the two of them, as they pressed themselves into the root-riddled hollow wall. It shuffled its wings - ruffled and out of place - and proudly moved one forwards and preened it ever so slightly, nibbling on the edge. Svarla noticed that the larger feathers were starting to look broken and torn, weathered, losing their shine.

“Did you see anyone following us?”

The horse shook its head. “They searched, but couldn’t find you. They’re not pleased. We hurt them, and I don’t think they’re going to give up.” It paused. “I think they know it’s you that got away. We have to hurry.”

Svarla closed her eyes and shook her head. “Right,” she said. “Fortunately, we’re close to Blackrock. It should be easy enough to get there.”

It was only a day or two of travel inwards and even further north, but it was exhausting travel, riddled with hiding from patrols of soldiers and running from shadow to shadow in the nights. It got colder and snowier as they trudged up through the hills into the mountains, through the elevation, to the point where the night skies were no longer clear and the days were hazy with tiny snowflakes that always drifted downwards and whirled around Svarla’s head aimlessly. She wished she’d had warmer clothing; at night, they made fires, but more often than not Svarla rested in the cold, or slightly sheltered under one of the horse’s wings.

Svarla couldn’t feel the cold when it got painful. The sensation simply went away; she was worried, because she realized quickly that if she got frostbite, she wouldn’t be able to tell. The metal of her armor was freezing to the touch, and she knew sometimes her fingers stuck to the gleaming steel. She’d pull them away and feel the stretch and sometimes break of her skin, but it didn’t hurt.

That more than anything else scared her.

The horse was walking more often now. “Why not fly?” Svarla asked it.

“I could be seen,” it said, “and my flight is horrible now.”

“Why?”

“Winged horses aren’t _ supposed _ to exist, you know. We were created for the royal family. I require a royal to clean and maintain my feathers, or I can’t fly.”

“...really?”

“That is one of the duties of the Queen,” the horse said, nodding. “To care for her mount. I need her back.”

“Then we’d best get her.”

-

After three days of travel, they found Blackrock.

It was a dark stone fortress nestled in between three peaks, barely visible through the whirling snow. There was a storm overhead - it seemed to worsen with every step Svarla took closer to the fort - that shrouded the fort in a curtain of white. She bent her head against the wind.

It was large, square, with towers at each corner and thick stone walls. Svarla squinted through the wind, but couldn’t make out any details. “Eagle, what do you see?”

“Guards on the walls,” Eagle said, peering through the storm, “and guards on the towers. They’re watching. They’re ready.” She paused and looked over to Svarla. “They know you’re coming.”

“Of course,” Svarla sighed, staring down at it. “But this - we can’t avoid this.”

Eagle stared at it. Svarla glanced over at her and saw her weighing the odds.

“You don’t have to do this with me,” she said, leaning forward a bit to see into Eagle’s eyes. “You know that, right? You can stay behind.”

“Now, why’d you say that?” Eagle snapped, turning her head to glare at Svarla. “Now I  _ have _ to help you.”

“You don’t - “

“No, you told me I can leave, so now I can’t,” Eagle muttered, folding her arms. “This is how it goes with you people. I need a weapon.”

Svarla had only her sword and emergency dagger, neither of which she was willing to give up. “The soldiers are armed,” she said. “If we fight our way past the first few, you can take their weapons.”

“Okay, cool,” Eagle muttered. “I’m going to get shot and die. I can’t wear their armor.” She shook her head, fluffing up her crests. “Whatever. It’s fine. This sucks. How do we get in?”

Svarla smiled, grim. “They’re expecting me,” she said. “We’ll go in through the front gate.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Watch me.”


	9. Rescue

The horse did not like being ridden by someone who wasn’t the Queen.

“It’s improper,” it argued, as Svarla poked her head around a bend in the road to view Blackrock Fort from the front. “It’s wrong!”

“Our Queen is in there,” Svarla said, “and this may help us get her.”

“May!”

“Eagle rode you and you didn’t complain.”

“Eagle is an elf,” the horse sniffed, “and a dignified personage by nature. She is also a royal. You are not!”

“We don’t have time for this.”

The horse had no saddle or tack, but it still had a broad back Svarla could sit on, and it was  _ designed _ to be ridden. She used a rock to mount the horse, taking care not to crush too many feathers, and took a deep breath to hide her nervousness.

Queen Padhrudah was waiting for them. She needed their help.

“I am coming for you,” Svarla whispered, and nodded to the horse. It stepped out and began to walk purposefully down the road towards the Fort.

They didn’t hide at all. They did this in the middle of the day, in full view of the archers, of the soldiers, of everyone. Svarla was counting on the shock value of this to prevent them from firing on her.

And it worked. There was silence as she and the horse stepped towards the Fort, silence as the guards watched her incredulously. She didn’t even draw her sword.

When she was within shouting distance, she called out to them. “Excuse me,” she said, “but I would like if you returned my Queen.”

Silence followed her answer. The horse stopped walking, waiting for a response, but there was nothing.

“Should you refuse to do so,” Svarla continued, “I will be forced to come and take her back on my own terms, and I do not think you want that.”

The guards exchanged glances.

“Answer me,” Svarla shouted, “or I will assume that you are rejecting my request.”

They didn’t appear to know how to answer. One of them stepped forward and said, “Ma’am, I have a - there’s a notice out for your arrest.”

“I’ll take that as a no?”

“You are not allowed to come closer to the Fort, and I recommend you stay exactly where you are,” the guard shouted, really getting into it now. “You will be taken into custody soon to answer for your crimes.”

“I guess that’s a no,” Svarla said, and the horse charged. Svarla leaned down as it folded its wings half-out and hit a gallop in seconds.

At the same time, Eagle slipped by the wall, appeared behind one of the guards, and leaped up, grabbing onto the sides of his head. He shrieked, just once, before she wrenched her whole body to the side and snapped his neck. The other guard moved up towards Svarla and she cut him down without thinking, drawing her sword in a ringing arc and bringing it down into his torso, then up again, trailing a string of red droplets in the snowfall.

Eagle pulled a shortsword from the sheath of the guard she’d killed and frowned at it, “This is shit,” she muttered, but held it anyway. The tips of her fingers, clawlike, were still clean - for the moment.

The gate was the next challenge. It was shut. Svarla dismounted the horse, since she was out of sight of the archers, and looked to it and Eagle. “Hurry,” she said.

Eagle climbed aboard the horse and it turned, leaping into a canter and heading outwards. Svarla saw them disappear.

Sword drawn, she lowered her head. “In life I will guard thee,” she whispered.

Eagle and the horse landed in the main courtyard of the Fort. The horse spread its wings and flapped as hard as it could, stirring up snow, and ran through it, trying not to be shot while Eagle darted over to the main gate, spotted the mechanism, and swiped her shortsword through a rope of some type. The gate in front of Svarla rattled up and she strode into the courtyard, swinging her sword in a shining circle.

“In death I will serve thee,” she murmured.

The wind rose. Svarla cut through it, steady in her armor, not feeling it bite at her. It couldn’t stop her. She faced the main body of the Fort - the Queen was in there, she knew it. She could feel it. “To me,” she called, and the horse and Eagle came to her.

The main door was barred, but that was no match for Svarla and the horse together. She slammed her body into it, feeling herself thud heavy against the wood, and when the horse kicked at the same time she heard wood splinter. The door burst inwards and she came face-to-face with a dark-armored guard.

He brought his sword up; she parried it and slashed him down, a smooth, practiced motion of her blade. She felt almost calm.

“In war I am your sword and shield,” she whispered, and stepped forwards to fight the next soldier.

The horse charged down the hallway, full speed, and some of the soldiers did not move out of the way. They were thrown down, trampled, and Svarla moved by with her blade and made sure they stayed down. Eagle dashed ahead, the tips of her fingers no longer clean; her brown robes were drenched with blood.

“In peace I am the rule you wield.”

Svarla rounded a corner and saw ahead of her a spiral staircase, wide and dark, huge blocks of stone forming a shallow pathway up. She strode towards it, heedless of the shouting in the hallways around her.

“I will guard you night and day.”

There was a thud in her back shoulder, as if someone had punched her; no pain, just the impact. Svarla glanced around, but the only people behind her were two guards down the hallway. Eagle was watching her, eyes wide, and she spun to face them too, crouching and half-running on all fours to get to them quicker. One of them dropped a crossbow as Eagle leaped at him and clawed with her hands at his throat; the other frantically tried to reload and failed, which gave Eagle enough time to leap for him too, knocking him backwards into the wall, and jam her fingers into his eye sockets.

Svarla reached back and touched her shoulder. Something was sticking out of it - a short, thick piece of wood. A crossbow bolt. She poked it and felt the flesh bend around it, felt the tip of it scrape against bone somewhere, and she felt the mobility of her left shoulder reduced.

It didn’t hurt, but she could feel on her skin where the warmth of blood was beginning to dampen her clothes. She turned back and headed for the stairs.

“At your side I’ll always stay,” she whispered, and headed up them.

There were several floors, but this was the central staircase, and if the Queen was anywhere, it was going to be at the top. She knew it. She just knew it. She strode towards the stairs and began to climb them.

“Through profit and through pain,” she murmured.

The spiral was for defense, and she had to fight her way up. There was a guard with a greatsword striking at her; every ring resonated through her blade, but she didn’t feel the numbness that typically came with the shock of blocking a bigger blade. She struck forwards, relentless.

“Through sunlight and through rain,” she hissed, and drove her sword forwards, ducking underneath a swipe of the greatsword. She felt it connect and leaped upwards a few steps, driving it harder, and this time she felt the messy scrape of metal on bone through her hands.

It was fascinating, how much she could feel with no pain. Upwards, upwards. She followed the stairs til their end, practically sprinting up the steps when she could.

“Beyond reason,” she gasped at the top of them, “or memory.”

Somewhere, she heard the distant scream of a guard, and a matching howl from Eagle - still a humanoid cry.  _ If only she had transformed, _ Svarla thought,  _ this would be easier. _ But Eagle didn’t control what she did.

There were guards in the hall. At the far end, Svarla saw a door heavily barred, made of metal, unlike most of the doors here.  _ She had to be there. _

“For my life,” Svarla said out loud, the words ringing in her mind, in her heart, as she had memorized them, “to the day of my death and beyond - “

She charged forwards, sword up. Soldiers - trained men, adults, who had fought before - tried to stop her. She felt the tug of a sword tearing the skin below her arm when she raised it to strike and didn’t react, even as she felt the warmth of blood begin to spill out over her skin again. Another guard saw her unflinching eyes and backed away, expression falling into horror.

“- past when my spirit is forgotten -”

She dispatched the guard who had hit her, and heard a scrambling in the stairwell; Eagle’s tiny form appeared, fluffed to maximum size, eyes shining in the dim light of the hall. The horse was behind her, climbing the  _ stairs _ , following in Svarla’s wake.

‘- and I become nothing but an etching on the wall -”

Svarla sprinted the length of the hall and rammed full-body into the guard at the end. He had a ring of keys on his belt. She’d ignored the other two and now heard Eagle dismantling them with a string of curses in Elvish in the background. She swept up the ring - there was one key larger than the rest on it - and inserted the key into the lock, turning it and wrenching the door open.

“I am yours,” she breathed.

The room was cold. Outside one barred window, snow was falling. There was a simple bed, a wooden table and a chair, a set of dishes moldering in the corner, a chamber pot. And one figure, slumped against the wall. Her face was hidden by waves of unwashed black hair specked through with snowflakes and her form was frighteningly thin.

Svarla rushed forwards. Relief flooded her body - the Queen really was here, and now Svarla could take her to reclaim her queendom. She stopped next to the Queen and knelt. “Queen,” she whispered.

No response.

She reached forward and touched Queen Padhrudah’s shoulder. “My Queen?”

No response.

Svarla felt cold. She lifted her hand and moved the hair out of the Queen’s face.

Her eyes were deep brown, like her skin, like Svarla’s, deep brown with streaks of black. But they were dry, lacking the glossy sheen of an eye, instead pale and misted over and open, staring at the ground, unseeing.

Svarla stumbled backwards, losing her balance, and sat down hard on the ground in shock. The relief she had felt drained from her body. “No,” she said.

The horse cantered to her and skidded to a halt, beholding the scene. “Please,” it said, desperately, looking to Svarla.

“She's gone,” she said.

“No!” The horse folded its wings and squeezed through the doorway, filling the tiny room. Snowflakes blew in through the window and scattered themselves across the barren stone floor. The Queen was wearing the remnants of a dress that had once been beautiful, and were now stained with blood and streaked with grime from her prison cell.

The Queen was dead. The Queen of Kendali was dead.

The last known heir to the throne of Kendali was gone. Who would succeed her? Who would step in? Her entire family had been killed. What was to be done? Was there a distant cousin, a -

She drew in a sharp breath, eyes wide. Ventash’s royal line was mixed with Kendali’s in a few places. Almera Padhrudah had not been one of those places, but there were more. Svarla went through her head, trying to figure out who was next.

Queen Padhrudah’s parents and siblings were dead, along with her aunts and uncles, and their children. She had no cousins to assume the throne, so the line would pass from the sister of her grandmother down to…

...Lady Myra Allweather, de facto queen of Ventash.

She knew her royals. It was part of her training, part of what she had to know if she was going to serve the family. She knew them through and through and she knew that Lady Myra Allweather was a force to be reckoned with.

“The Queen is dead,” Svarla said, cold, “and the new Queen holds the throne of Ventash.”

The horse nosed Queen Padhrudah’s body with its muzzle. “Queen?” it asked, and then, more softly: “Almera? Allie?”

She was silent, frozen. Svarla looked around, dizzy with shock and fear and worry. The Queen had not been stabbed, and she had been given food. She had probably been poisoned.

She’d been poisoned because Svarla had come for her.

“Nelira save me,” Svarla said, horrified. “I’ve done this. I did this.”

Silence, aside from shouting in the distance. Eagle looked to the door. “We gotta go,” she said, nervously. “And quick.”

“The Queen is dead,” Svarla whispered, and dropped her head. Her vision was spinning and dark - she was exhausted, and it had all been for nothing. All of this had been for nothing.

“Fuckin’ hurry up,” Eagle snapped. “They’re coming!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Svarla slurred, the dizziness coming harder at her this time. Maybe it was shock? “Kendali is… ruined.”

“Do you  _ want _ to die?” Eagle hissed.

Svarla shook her head, but she was losing the ability to see straight. She felt somewhat numb. Perhaps from the shock?

Oh, right. She had wounds. She glanced down and saw that her blood was dribbling down her armor now, in red tracks that were half freezing as they ran. “Oh,” she said.

“Get  _ up!” _ Eagle hissed. “I can’t hold them off, I can’t make myself transform!”

Svarla flailed around, located her sword, and slowly pushed herself to her feet. She felt heavy, tired… but not in pain. There was no pain.

What a curse it was.

Eagle sighed. “Gods damn it all,” she muttered. “Okay, fine. There’s a stairwell here that leads to the roof. We can fly from there. We just have to get there.”

“Can’t fly,” Svarla mumbled.

Eagle looked to the horse. “You can,” she said.

The horse wasn’t listening. It was staring at Queen Padhrudah’s form, still and silent. As Svarla watched it knelt and lay down next to her, placing its head in her lap.

“Oh, come  _ on,” _ Eagle groaned. “Do  _ you _ want to die too?!”

“My Queen is gone,” the horse moaned. “What is there to live for?”

“You’re - ugh!” Eagle folded her arms. “You’re fucking idiots, both of you! Die, then! The roof is our way out.”

Silence. The shouting in the distance grew louder.

Eagle looked between them. She swallowed. “I might not be able to get out of this hellhole without you,” she finally admitted, and stepped over to the horse, leaning down to look it in the eyes. “If you die, you’ll never be able to help Svarla get out.”

“Why…?” the horse said.

“Svarla is the last knight of the realm. If anyone can free the country from whoever controls it now, it’s her. Do you want to help her or not?”

“My Queen is gone,” the horse sighed.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Eagle raised one hand and smacked the horse gently in the face, enough to draw its attention. “Do you want her country to die too?”

Slowly the horse looked up. “But…”

“No buts!” Eagle glared at it, then pulled out her shortsword and used the portion near the hilt to shear off a portion of Queen Padhrudah’s hair, which she held up, then tucked into a pocket. “You can take this with you as a memento or something. Now can we  _ please _ go?”

The horse struggled up into a standing position and looked out into the hallway. “The roof?” it said, questioning. 

Svarla fell over, a heap of clattering armor. The horse jumped at the sound, then blinked several times. “Oh, dear,” it said. “You’re dying too.”

“I’m what?” Svarla looked down. Blood, hot and sticky, was beginning to coat her sides. “I’m fine.”

“Unbelievable,” Eagle muttered. She reached down and grabbed hold of Svarla’s arm, but couldn’t pull her. “This - this is bullshit. Help me!”

The horse, at which this had been directed, stepped over and nudged Svarla with one hoof. She rolled onto her side - the bolt had jammed itself further into her shoulder with that fall, and she could feel it was poking into the joint now - and tried to pull herself up, but her arms felt weak, and folded when she put pressure on them. She tried again and managed to get onto her hands and knees.

“Stay still,” Eagle suddenly said.

“You told me - “

Eagle reached over Svarla’s back and unbuckled the breastplate from both sides, letting the two halves fall to the floor. She snapped the crossbow bolt in two and tossed the feathered end away down the hall. “Get rid of your armor, now,” she said.

“But - !” That was her armor! She needed that!

“Do you want to live?”

Slowly, Svarla began to pull off her greaves, gauntlets, bracers. Eagle kept pulling her along as they went - she left a trail of iron behind her.

The roof access was a black door that Eagle pulled on heavily, then stepped back and let the horse kick. It shattered the lock with its hooves and Eagle yanked the door open. A blast of cold air swept down a small set of stairs and hit them; Svarla nearly fell over again.

The horse hurried up them first and tested the wind with its wings; the storm had picked up, whirling ceaselessly around the fort. “I can get lift in this,” it called, “but I can’t say we won’t crash.”

“Better odds than before,” Eagle yelled back.

The horse knelt. Eagle pushed Svarla towards it and she stumbled, but managed it; she felt light without her armor, without the weight of it hanging heavy on her frame. But she also felt light in general, weak and fuzzy. The horse waited as she pulled herself onto it and laid down, still holding her sword.

It stood, but paused. “The sword,” it said. “I can’t fly with it.”

“That’s my blade,” Svarla protested. “It’s… my sword.”

“The sword goes, or we don’t fly,” Eagle snapped, leaping up behind Svarla. She was tiny, and apparently weighed nothing; the horse didn’t seem to notice she had mounted up as well.

Svarla looked down, took a breath, and let go. Her blade clattered to the stone and lay there, stained with blood and freezing in the diffuse winterlight.

With that, the horse spread its tattered wings and instantly they were airborne. The gale picked them up and hurled them upwards into the sky; Svarla gasped and wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck, pressing her cheek to its glossy coat.

“Hang on,” Eagle grunted, from behind Svarla. “Just hang on.”

The storm was powerful. It whipped them away from Blackrock Fort, away from what remained of the Queen of Kendali, and into the afternoon as it turned to evening. Away from the Fort the sky cleared, and Svarla remembered seeing stars before she lost consciousness.


	10. Dawnvale

Warmth.

That’s what Svarla felt, when she became aware of herself and her surroundings. Warmth and light. Sunlight, beaming down onto her from somewhere.

It was too bright for her to open her eyes, but she could hear birdsong nearby, and wind in the trees. From somewhere further she heard the trickle of water, and in the distance, an unidentifiable tone that rose and fell like an ocean wave.

“Hello?” she said, or tried to; her mouth was thick and her throat was dry. She couldn’t actually speak. She tested her hands, flexing her fingers, and then tried to open her eyes and look around.

The light was brilliant, but she adjusted to it quickly. She appeared to be in a white wooden bed, the feet of which were carved to look like tree roots digging into the half-paved ground of this room, and the tops of which twined together into a canopy of branches that stretched overhead.

Wait, no - those were living branches. The roots weren’t simply carved; they were live, growing through the soil below. Svarla looked around.

She was in a room open in a huge semicircle but guarded with curtains that were drawn open, allowing the sunlight and wind in. The light came slanting in over a white wood railing, and the wind tossed colorful fallen leaves into the area. Beyond this balcony rail Svarla could see buildings grown from white trees sprouting from rocky hillsides, and a clear river flowing beneath arching white bridges.

“Is what happens when you die?” she asked, to no one in particular, in a raspy whisper.

Nobody answered her. She looked around again, then swung her legs out of bed and stood. She felt weak, but otherwise alright; she could feel the tug in her skin where she’d been wounded.

If she were dead, why was she wounded? She glanced down to her right side and lifted the loose shirt she was wearing; beneath, she could see where her wound had been stitched shut by a careful hand, intricate lines sealing the cut completely.

...interesting.

Experimentally, she lifted her arm and stretched the wound. It didn’t hurt. No, of course it didn’t. She couldn’t feel pain.

Svarla dropped her arm and looked around again. There was a glass pitcher sitting on a table next to her bed, filled with water, and she eagerly poured some into the cup next to it and drank it. It was sweet and cool, and when she’d finished, she cleared her throat and coughed.

“Hello?” she tried again.

There was no one in sight. The other half of the room was a semicircular wooden wall, and set into it was a door. Svarla walked over - stumbling just a bit - and pulled the handle. It slid sideways, into the wall, and she poked her head out.

A curving hallway and an open hole in the floor, through which grew a tree. The tree’s trunk disappeared beneath the floor; Svarla was several floors up, it seemed - and the branches continued upwards, above where she was. She didn’t see anyone.

“Hello?” she called, a third time.

There was a clunk somewhere, and then a door across the way opened and someone poked their head out.

They were slender, with a narrow face and a sloped forehead that stuck up into a fin, a crest that ran all the way down their back. Their hands and arms were slender and almost translucent, light glowing through their skin and reflecting of scatterings of shimmery scales that cascaded off their shoulders and hips. They were wearing a simple tunic that was slit halfway up the thigh, and they had no shoes on. Their eyes were dark and shiny, unusually large, and their nose was nonexistent, just two small slits on a smooth face. Oddly enough, they still had elven ears, pointed back and wide to catch sound. They blinked in surprise and the crest on their head rose up, spiky and a faint silvery color. “You’re awake!” they called quietly, and smiled, a strange sight on a face almost shaped like that of a fish.

“O-oh,” Svarla said, trying to take them in. She looked again and saw hints of fins on the elf’s forearms and elbows, nestled between the glittering, opalescent scales. “Um - yes, I am.”

“Wonderful!” The elf - that was what they were, of course - slipped out of the room they’d been in and closed the door, then hurried around the open circle with the tree and up to Svarla. They flitted around her, bobbing up and down, searching her. “Are you in any pain?”

“No,” Svarla said. The elf’s voice was as soft as their touch; she detected only the faintest brush of those slim fingers against her arms, back, side. “But I can’t feel pain.”

“Oh, really? Why’s that?”

“I made a deal and now I can’t.” What a raw deal she’d gotten. The answer she’d needed, but for what? The bitterness came flooding in. She’d been cheated, but she hadn’t really - it was a fair game. She never asked for anything but the Queen’s location. The Prince of Duskmeadow had held up his end of the deal.

She wondered if he’d known the Queen was dead.

“Strange,” the elf murmured, and pulled down the collar of Svarla’s shirt over her back and shoulder, peering at her wounds. “You’re not fully healed, but your progress is remarkable!”

“Progress?”

“You were nearly dead when you arrived,” the elf said, nodding emphatically. “You had lost a great deal of your blood! But that's fine. You survived.”

“Can I ask… where am I?” Svarla said, trying to keep track of the elf.

“You’re in Dawnvale,” the elf said, ducking underneath Svarla’s arm and coming up in front of her again with another soft smile. “You’re safe.”

“What about Eagle? And the horse?”

The elf turned, beckoning. Svarla glanced back at her room once, then followed; the elf began to lead her along the curving hallway and around along an open-air balcony, talking the whole while. “Your companions? They’re here, safe as you are. I’m afraid your mount is still distraught over the loss of your queen.” The elf’s expression fell. “There is not much we can do for a wound like that.”

Svarla nodded silently. She understood.

“Your friend Eagle, who brought you here to us, however… we’ve had to keep her contained.” The elf shook their head.

Oh, no. “What did she do?”

“She’s -” the elf paused, looking up to Svarla. “Did you not know?”

“Did I not know what?” Svarla’s heart seized. Had Eagle been hurt?

“She was exiled from Skyhaven,” the elf said. Svarla frowned - that was another one of the Elvish principalities, wasn’t it? “That much we know. To harbor her here is dangerous for Dawnvale, and on top of that, she is a danger to herself and others. Surely you know she is a therianthrope.”

“Oh, yes, I did, but she’s not a danger,” Svarla said. “Not unless she chooses to be.”

“She cannot control her shape!”

“She can control herself in her shape,” Svarla snapped back, instantly. “Where are you keeping her?”

“Locked away,” the elf said, a little stiffly. “Where she cannot hurt anyone.”

“I’d like to see her.” Svarla stopped walking and folded her arms. “Immediately.”

The elf turned to face her and opened their mouth, then closed it again. “I’m sorry,” they finally said, “but I don’t think that will be possible. You need to speak to the Court as soon as you can.”

Another Court? Svarla pressed her lips together. “If I do this, will you take me to see Eagle?”

“You will have to ask the Court about that,” the elf said, not looking at her.

She wasn’t going to get anything from this elf. She had no shoes, but apparently that wasn't important her. The elf led her down a long curving ramp and further, to where it opened up into a forested area dappled with sunlight. Wooden paths, smooth and seamless, led in curves and loops through the trees and undergrowth.

“Come, follow,” the elf said.

Svarla followed them, the wood warm beneath her bare feet. Off somewhere else, that tone she had been hearing stopped, then was answered somewhere else, a tuneless sequence of notes.

“What's that sound?” Svarla asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

“Hm? Oh!” The elf smiled, but it was a different smile - distant, like she was remembering something. “That's the Elders speaking to each other. They watch the borders of our land and keep us safe.”

“Elders?”

“Some of the oldest of us can sing for  _ miles _ ,” the elf sighed, casting a wistful glance to some unknown subject. “We call them the Elders, but they aren’t the Court. The Court are the clever ones.”

Svarla shook her head. “What do you mean they ‘sing for miles’?”

“That song,” the elf said, gesturing to the air as they stepped along the pathway. “They’re singing messages to each other.”

“What are they saying?”

The elf paused, cocking their head to the side. “The northeastern quadrant is safe, unharmed,” they reported. “Though the weather to the north has gotten worse.”

_ Lady Allweather. _ Svarla hissed out a breath, scraping it through her throat; Allweather was working something.

Lady Myra Allweather, to Svarla’s knowledge, was the de facto queen of Ventash. Her line of succession was startlingly sparse, leading directly to her. And now that Queen Padhrudah was dead, the succession would again fall to her, effectively giving her control over both Ventash and Kendali.

From what Svarla had heard of Lady Allweather, she’d begun her ascension to power by killing a previous ruler, one of her aunts, and taking the throne herself. She’d first learned the magic that gave her her name - Allweather - and allowed her to bend the storms of Ventash to her will, as well as the sweeter winds, the fog, the rivers, and even the land itself.

But her rapport with the bones of Ventash was not what frightened Svarla most. No, what scared her was Lady Allweather’s penchant for raising the dead.

After she had killed her way to the throne, she’d raised her dead relatives to serve her. They were mindless, unthinking, and ready to carry out anything Lady Allweather decided needed to be done. With this power - and the power to kill an army and bring it back as a dead mass of soldiers who felt no pain and needed no food - she held an unbreakable hold over her country.

From the looks of it, unless someone did something, she’d expand that grasp to Kendali as well. But there was nothing that could be done - she was the heir to the throne.

So why did Svarla still feel as if she should be doing something?

The elf leading her turned around a path and spread their arms. “Look,” they said, turning their head to smile at Svarla. “Candlegrove.”

Those same smooth, white-barked trees grew in massive columns atop a hill visible from where they were standing now in the forest. Svarla was reminded of Glimmergloam Keep, and indeed the structure was similar, even including the same walkways that wrapped between the trees. But where Glimmergloam had boasted vines with fruits like lanterns, Candlegrove had extra branches where flames grew like leaves from the twigs, flickering gold pale in the sunlight, growing alongside ordinary leaves. They looked small from here, but Svarla could tell that one of those leaves was probably half the size of her body.

“The Court is within,” the elf guiding her said.

Svarla frowned. She’d never asked the name of the elf that had guided her in Duskmeadow, and she regretted it. “What’s your name, by the way?” she asked. “You’ve been very helpful to me.”

“It’s my job,” the elf replied, with a shrug. “But my name is Marishke Astanyri.”

Svarla nodded. She followed Marishke through winding streets and, as she went, she began to notice other elves.

They were hard to see - many of them seemed to be translucent, transparent, or altogether invisible, fading in and out of beams of sunlight. Most sported the same pale, shimmering scales as Marishke, though not always in silver - Svarla spotted pale pink, pastel yellow, dawn-sky blue. They were stunningly beautiful, ethereal and quiet, most with strangely shaped heads - longer, with crests and fins, and larger ears than she'd expected, even from an elf.

Marishke took her through courtyards with fantastically shaped fountains and flowering vines crawling over the stonework and the trees that made up the buildings, and then their winding path brought Svarla to the doors of Candlegrove.

“Go in,” Marishke said, smiling. “The Daybreak Court is waiting for you.”

The doors were intricately woven metal, matching the patterns of the tree branches - strong, yet light as a feather when Svarla pushed them open. She walked through and beheld the Court.

The Evening Court had been relaxing, thrown across couches and carpets and chairs. The Daybreak Court were in motion, idly swimming through the air in lazy circles and loops.

Most of them looked fairly similar, all following a uniform pattern with their own variations. Several were smaller, more humanoid, not as brilliant as the Court members.

One of them turned towards Svarla and hesitated, giving her enough time to take it in.

She was a pale rose color, brushed with gold, and looked rather like an ordinary elf that had lost their legs and had them replaced with the sinuous form of an eel. Layer upon layer of ephemeral silk and lace billowed around her in an unseen current, and her form wavered every so often, parts of the image breaking off into little globules and swirling joyously about on their own before rejoining her. Like with the other elves, she was transparent, as if she weren't even fully there.

“I am Chathranda ril Whalthe, Prince of Dawnvale,” she said, and her voice made the walls of the room hum and vibrate in response. It was the most musical voice Svarla had ever heard, bouncing in this echo chamber throne room. She pulled back, then swirled down to face Svarla on her level, leaving most of her tail hanging above in the air. “And you are lost.”

“I am Svarla Keshani,” Svarla said, hating how flat her voice sounded in answer to this being. “I am - I was going to be a knight of Kendali, sworn to the Queen, but the Queen is dead and her realm is falling.”

“And what makes you say that?” Chathranda tipped her head to the side. She had eyes, but they had no pupil, and her face was longer than a human's, with a strange, bulging throat. Much like with Marishke, her nose was almost missing entirely; she had two slits to breathe through, situated between her eyes.

“The one who would assume control of her land is a necromancer.”

Chathranda hummed to herself, thinking. She clasped her hands - two fingers and a thumb on each - together and sighed. “And why is this a terrible fate?”

Svarla was dumbstruck for a moment. “She - Lady Allweather is evil,” she said, eyes wide. “I don't know what she intends to do, but she… she has command of both Ventash and Kendali.”

“And?”

Svarla stopped.

“What do you believe she is going to do with these lands?”

She gathered her thoughts. “A knight from the north, from an area bordering Ventash, became Queen Padhrudah's appointed knight. He kidnapped her, took over the palace and took over Ruval, and killed every other knight-hopeful but me. I only got away because I was petty and I left early to go home.” She took a breath.

Chathranda was watching her. Her hair coiled in the air as if it were suspended in water. “Go on,” the Prince hummed, softly.

“Sir Ilian - that's the knight - sent the Queen to Blackrock Fort and then diverted a lot of time and power into stopping me. I learned what had happened from her mount, who escaped Ruval. I learned her location from the Prince of Duskmeadow.”

Chathranda swirled back and forth in a figure-eight pattern. “Duskmeadow,” she sighed. “Our kin. And the price you paid?”

“I cannot feel pain.” Svarla paused. “Pain of the body, that is.”

“And your heart still hurts for your queen. Go on.”

Svarla took a breath. “I went to Blackrock Fort. I, um… found Eagle along the way. We fought our way in, but they poisoned the Queen just before I reached her.” That tight knot in her throat twisted, and she swallowed hard, looking down. “They killed her because I was close.”

“And?”

“Queen Padhrudah was the last of her line. Succession falls now to Lady Myra Allweather of Ventash. Kendali belongs to Ventash.”

“Why do you think she has done this?”

Svarla shrugged. “I don't know,” she said miserably. “For power?”

“Think, child,” Chathranda said, floating closer. She reached out and touched Svarla's cheekbone with one finger, tracing the fine structure of her face. “Why?”

“...Lady Allweather knew she could get away with it? She is the legitimate heir.” Svarla paused. “If she controls both Ventash and Kendali… oh, no.”

“Hmm?”

“Esterly is in trouble.” Svarla looked up to the Prince's eyes, fearful. “They're just a strip of coastline. With both countries, Lady Allweather can take them over easily. Then she could take on the Chalavan Empire.”

“Ambitious,” the Prince said. “Do you think it would work?”

“Maybe. She is a necromancer. Her armies are hard to kill.” Svarla shivered. “We can't let her do this!”

“How do you think you could stop her?”

Svarla began to pace back and forth. She missed the weight of her sword at her hip. “She - she is rightfully the Queen. But if she were, why kidnap Queen Padhrudah? Why go through these theatrics? Why pretend the Queen was at the palace when she was not?”

Chathranda watched her carefully, silent.

Svarla stopped moving. “There's another heir.”

“What makes you think that?”

“If another heir learned of the Queen's death, they would step forward to take the throne,” Svarla said slowly, mind churning. “So they're - they were keeping her alive, to… find that heir? Kill them?”

Chathranda smiled. “And you did not even have to pay for that information,” she purred, sweeping forward again. “You learned it yourself.”

Svarla looked up, shocked. “I'm - I'm  _ right? _ There's another heir?”

Chathranda nodded.

“But who? The entire Padhrudah family was wiped out! They were all killed by assassins years ago.”

She stopped. “...unless one got away.”

Chathranda's smile widened. “Your reasoning is sound,” she said.

“How? Where? Who? I need to find them.” Svarla whirled to face the Prince. “I need to protect them.”

“That is information you will have to pay for,” Chathranda sighed, shaking her head.

“Anything. I'll pay it.”

Chathranda pulled her upper body back, surprised. “An open-ended promise is not a light promise to be made,” she said.

“I - just tell me what you want.”

Chathranda thought. She swam a few slow circles around Svarla, humming, notes rising and falling. The other members of the Daybreak Court joined in.

_ They're talking about it, _ Svarla realized.  _ They're singing the messages to each other. _

Finally the Prince stopped before Svarla, her massive tail piling up in the air behind her. “Your dreams,” she said simply. “We want to use them.”

Her  _ dreams? _ An odd request. Svarla swallowed and nodded. “That I will pay,” she said. “You can use my dreams if you tell me where I can find the next heir to the throne of Kendali.”

“As you desire,” Chathranda said. “They can be found on the coast in Esterly, dwelling by the sea. South of Greyhaven there is a small inlet and spur called Astora's Reach; they live there, in a stone house sheltered from the wind, buried in the soil and grass. Long ago a nurse gave her life in payment to the Tidal Court to protect a child she brought to them. They have fulfilled their end of the bargain; the sea takes care of its own. But the heir is out of time. Now you will have to protect them.”

Svarla's mind was racing. “I have to find them first,” she said. “We can - we can save Kendali, and maybe Esterly as well.”

Chathranda smiled. “And so you've made your decision,” she sang, swirling around Svarla again. “You will need your mount to find the heir.”

Svarla paused. “I can't fly on the horse with my armor,” she started, and then, “...I lost my armor and my sword.”

Damn. She looked up to Chathranda. “I know it's a lot to ask, but do you have any weapons? Armor?”

“Relics from others of your kind who have visited us, yes,” the Prince replied, going back into that figure-eight. She eyed Svarla slyly through the corner of one shining eye. “Or we could craft you some.”

Svarla felt her heart skip a beat. Elven-crafted armor was legendary and extraordinarily rare, weapons even more so. “Yes,” Svarla breathed. “I - yes!”

“There is a price to pay,” Chathranda warned her.

“What price?”

Chathranda swirled around her, her glistening form passing through beams of light and nearly disappearing in their glow. “Two secrets,” she sang. “One, for armor, and the other for a blade.”

Secrets. What secrets did Svarla have? She racked her mind, trying to think. “What kind of secrets?”

“Things with meaning to you. Lost loves, desires, thoughts you never shared, or could not share.” The elven Prince drifted backwards a bit, the silk poofing out and swirling around her.

“I - I wish Sir Ilian had killed me with the rest of the knights, because… I don't want to do this. I wish someone else would.” Svarla kept her eyes on the smooth wood floor. “But there is no one else, and I must do my duty.”

Chathranda stared at her. “Is that the truth?” She said, blinking slowly.

Svarla's chest hurt. “I'm glad the others died,” she blurted out. “I wouldn't be able to do this otherwise. Someone more powerful than me, someone stronger and more experienced, would do it. But they're all gone. So I can - I can show my loyalty, and be a Knight.”

“Good,” Chathranda hummed, slitting her eyes like she'd spotted her prey. “What else?”

Svarla swallowed hard. “I was in love with the Queen,” she said, and the admission was a stone she had to cough out - her voice was cracked as she said it, rough. “I know it never would have come to anything, but - gods, I wanted to be near her. I wanted to be around her. I thought my devotion would make her choose me. I was wrong.”

Chathranda leaned forwards and took Svarla's face in both hands. “Child, you speak with your heart,” she said. “You give us this knowledge, and we give you in return the tools you need to bring your world back from the brink.”

Svarla nodded, tears pricking at her eyes. She was not going to thank the Prince; they'd made a deal, after all.

“What else do you require, if anything?” Chathranda tilted her head sideways. “If you are finished speaking with me, you have armor to be measured for.”

“No, nothing,” Svarla started, shaking her head, and then she remembered. “Wait. Yes.” She looked up into Chathranda's eyes. “Eagle.”

“Your friend?”

“Where is she? I want to see her.”

“Entering an elven Principality after being forbidden from such places is punishable by imprisonment, or death, depending on their crimes,” Chathranda sighed. “She knew what the cost was for bringing you here.”

“She did it to save my life!”

“That was her decision.”

Svarla stared. “Please let me speak to her,” she begged, looking up to the other members of the Court. “Please. She's my friend.”

There was a long silence. Motes of dust drifted through the beams of light that lanced through Candlegrove, swirling around the unlit candles that hung around the circular chamber. The other elves swam around each other, humming nearly inaudible notes to each other - a conversation Svarla could neither hear nor understand. 

“Very well,” 

Svarla nearly went weak with relief. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and nodded. “Thank you,” she said, because this  _ was _ an allowance they were making for her. “Thank you.”

“You will be escorted to her,” Chathranda said, “after you rest further. You will remain here for as long as it takes to create your weapon and armor.” The elf looked Svarla up and down. “Am I correct in assuming you fight with a sword?”

“I - yes, I do.”

“That is what the smiths of Dawnvale will create for you,” she said, nodding. “Now go. See your friend.” She pulled back even further, and her expression - elegant, royal, alien - was caught somewhere between derision and pity. “It is like as not the last time you ever will.”


	11. Caged Beast

Eagle was being kept in a tall, domed area of trees interwoven with beautifully smithed metal. Svarla worried that she’d be in her monster form when she arrived, but inside the pit there was only the small elf, sitting against one wall, arms drawn around her knees.

“Eagle!” Svarla called, softly.

Eagle looked up. Her eyes were soft and gleaming. “Oh,” she said. “You.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. You’re alive?”

“Yes, I’m - I’m fine.” Svarla touched the stitches in her side with one hand. “I’m fine. What happened?”

Eagle glowered at the wall. “They threw me in here the second they learned my name,” she growled. “Gonna keep me here. What have you done?”

“I woke up, and spoke to the Prince,” Svarla said. “Eagle, there’s another heir to Kendali!”

“Goody,” Eagle muttered.

“They’re in Esterly. We have to get there and find them as quickly as we can, before Lady Allweather does,” Svarla said. “But I’m getting armor and a sword from the elves first! We’ll be able to find them soon.”

“You mean  _ you _ ,” Eagle snapped. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“...what do you mean?” Had Chathranda really meant what she had said about Svarla never seeing Eagle again? Why?

“I’m an exile, and I popped back in here with you,” Eagle explained, lowering her face to glare at the dirt. “That means I either get to stay in this stupid cage  _ forever _ or I can go ahead and just die. Fun pick. Either way, I’m not coming on your trip.”

“...I don’t understand,” Svarla said, after a moment. “What - what did you do?”

Eagle stared down.

“Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked.” Svarla shook her head. “I - how can we get you out of there?”

Eagle actually laughed, sour and pained. “You can’t do anything,” she said. “Not against the elves. Elves don’t change their minds.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, because you’re an expert on elven law?”

“Why - why wouldn’t they let you out? What - “ Svarla broke off, running her hands through her hair. “I - I’m sure there’s something I can use, something I can give to Chathranda to get you out.”

“Oh, do not,” Eagle growled. “Do  _ not _ sacrifice some important shit to get me out of here. If I escape, it’ll be my own doing.” She leaned her head back, feathers poking through the metal weave. Svarla was tempted to reach out, touch them, calm her as she’d done when she was trapped in her beast form. “I won’t. But I’ll try.” She shrugged. “Good luck on your heir hunt.”

Distant notes from the Elders echoed through the valley, carried on the wind. Svarla put her hands on her hips. “Is that all?”

“What more do you want?”

“You - you’ve seen what Lady Allweather can do -”

“I really haven’t,” Eagle muttered.

“- and you know she’s incredibly dangerous! We can’t let her take over Kendali, and if we find the heir, we can put a stop to it.”

“That’s nice.” Eagle stood and turned to face Svarla, folding her arms. “You seem to have missed the point here:  _ It’s not my gods-damned decision. _ I can’t get out of here. Trust me, I want to. This place is sucks ass! But I’m not  _ allowed. _ ”

“Why?”

“Because I was exiled!” Eagle paused, staring through the glistening metal of the cage. Her eyes reflected the twisting bars; they were ornamental, bent into the shapes of twigs and leaves, but they were still bars. “Because I killed my mentor when I lost control of my shapeshift, and haven’t been able to get it handled since. They don’t want me around because I’m dangerous.” She stepped back a few paces and pointed.

In the segments of the cage wall where wood was predominant, there were deep gouges - Svarla recognized them as left by Eagle’s monster-form claws. “I still can’t control it, so to them, it’s safer to have me in here.” She spat at the ground. “They think I’m uncontrollable.”

“But…” Svarla frowned. “You’ve been - when you’re like that, in your other shape - you’ve been reasonable. Able to write, even. How - ?”

“It’s not normally like that.” Eagle scuffed the dust of the ground inside the cage with one heel. “I’m only like that around you.”

“...what?”

“I don’t know why, okay?” Eagle snapped, pulling her arms in closer. “It just is! But you’re going away, and now I’m just going to be a monster again.”

“I’m going to go to Chathranda and ask her to let you come with me,” Svarla decided, folding her own arms to mirror Eagle’s pose. “She’ll listen to me.”

“Sure.”

“Maybe I can say it’s as penance. You have to travel with me.”

“She already knows we’re… acquainted,” Eagle said slowly. “It won’t work.”

“Oh yeah? What if I pay her for it as well? What if I pay her in years of my life, or memories?”

Eagle’s eyes went wide. “No,” she said. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“ _ Don’t.” _ Svarla could see thoughts flicking through Eagle’s mind, swifter than her own. “Don’t. I - I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

Eagle shook her head. “You’ll see if it works,” she said, and looked up, towards Candlegrove in the distance. “You’ll see.”

Svarla swallowed. “What are you doing?”

“You gave me an idea.” Eagle lowered her hands to her sides and took a breath. “I still have one thing left to bargain away.”


	12. Sunsmithing

Marishke guided Svarla back through the Sunwood, past where she’d woken up originally and through down a small gully into a dry riverbed. There was no water, but colored light flowed through the area like water, and streams of brilliance were diverted down into several forges that lined the way.

“The smiths will take care of you now,” Marishke said, bowing to Svarla. “Have fun!”

The smiths in question were two multi-armed elves who immediately set about darting around Svarla’s form, measuring her, testing pieces of metal against her, eyeing her critically. The metal was glowing hot, but they seemed to be able to pick it up without effort.

One of them plucked at her hair. “This is a problem,” she said, flatly. “Your helmet will not support this.”

“What? Why?”

“It is fitted to your head, to your skull. There is no room for… that.” The smith was dressed in shining scale mail, half-armor, half-robes. Her own head was clear of hair, streamlined and smooth. “We will have to get rid of it.”

Svarla swallowed. “Are you - are you sure?”

“Yes.”

So Svarla knelt on the ground and stayed very still as the two elves picked up gleaming golden blades and began to cut her hair away. It was dizzying, watching the hair she’d bundled under her helmet or kept down for special events for years fall to the smooth stone ground of the gully, curls of deep black that looked like Queen Padhrudah’s hair, almost. The blades scraped along her scalp cleanly to the point where even the fuzz wasn’t there; when they were finished, she touched the skin and felt the faintest fuzz of hair remaining. That was it.

“My village would not recognize me,” she said, when one of the elves showed her a mirror. She felt lightheaded - literally, because her hair was gone. She saw it lying in a heap of black fiber on the ground.

“What do we do with this?” one of the elves said, looking to her.

She knelt again and lifted a section of hair. “...burn it,” she said.

The forges would do. Svarla and the elves heaved the mass into the flames and watched them curl, catch, and burn away to nothing. Svarla ran her hands across her scalp over and over, marveling at the difference.

It was terrifying. But now, not even Sir Ilian would recognize her, most likely.

The elves worked for two days to build her armor. The nights in Dawnvale were bright, lit with candles and lanterns and brilliant gold creatures that hung delicately in long, tasseled strands through the sky, like seadragons. Shimmering between those at night were auroras, strands of color that faded in and out of the sky just like the elves did.

But that was not the only thing her secrets had bought her. She was also to be given a sword.

She tested many of the elven blades that hung in the armory - they were light, too light, and she couldn’t get a handle on most of them. The weaponsmith who tested her took notes the entire time, staring through silvered eyes as she experimentally lunged and struck at practice dummies.

By the time evening fell she was exhausted, sweaty, and feeling the strain of the exercise in her muscles. The weaponsmith nodded to her as she lowered the latest blade and turned to them, panting.

“Good,” they said, rolling up a long page filled with scribbled notes. “Come with me - and put that blade down.”

“Wh… Where are we going?” Svarla staggered over to the rack of blades and replaced the one she’d been using.

“We are going to make your sword.” The elf smiled, grim, but testing. “You will help me.”

The weapons forge was downriver from the armorsmiths’, and Svarla saw it also diverted funnels of brilliant light down into the coals. The elf she was following - Master Inthyril - brought her to a wide forge and presented her with a choice of metallic ingots.

“One of these will be the blade you wield,” they said. “Choose carefully.”

Four choices - one bronze-colored and gleaming, one golden, one silver, one darker gray. Svarla laid her hands over them.

The darker one was purest iron, she could tell. The silver was steel; the gold she didn’t know, nor the bronze. But it was warm to the touch - the gold was - and the copper felt strangely light. That was an elven metal, and it was the same hue as most of their blades. Purely, it was too airy for her - and too cold. It felt like the swift biting winds of autumn. So...

She turned to Master Inthyril. “I want to combine them.”

They smiled. “Intriguing,” they said. “Not what I expected from you. It is innovative. We will do it.”

The iron, the steel, the gold, the copper. Svarla didn’t know what the gold and copper metals were, only knew them by color, and Master Inthyril didn’t seem keen on telling her. She watched as they began the process of swordmaking, heating the ingots, then slowly beginning to melt them together.

Not all of any ingot, but half of each. This was going to be much larger than an elven blade. It would be sized for Svarla, weighted for her.

She stayed there while Master Inthryil crafted the blade. He asked her several times to come and beat the metal herself; she obliged, the weight of the hammer heavy and strong in her hands.

After midnight she, with Master Inthyril watching over her, plunged the blade into the long trough of water and light and pulled her head back from the steam that went up. Master Inthyril took the blade from her grasp and she heard several words in a strange language and a flash of light that traveled along the length of the blade before disappearing in a spark.

“Step back,” they told her, and she did. They nodded. “I will finish this.”

Svarla was no bladesmith. She did as asked, taking a seat on a bench at the rear of the forge. She fell asleep nearly instantly; what woke her was the break of dawn, and the silence of the forge - the bellows were still, the trough was empty, and the grindstone near the wall was not grating along. Master Inthyril was sitting with the sword across their knees, methodically polishing it with a piece of cloth.

“You are awake,” they said.

“I - yes,” Svarla said, standing and stretching. She stepped over cautiously. “Is that…?”

Master Inthyril nodded. “It is yours,” they said, and as the first beams of morning light lanced through the front of the forge, Svarla took the blade.

It was heavy, but not too heavy - light enough for her to wield in one hand, strong enough to take blows from larger blades. Resting on the ground its hilt reached her ribcage; she held it at arm’s length and looked at it critically, up and down.

The blade was long and straight, like a human blade, but where there would ordinarily be a crossguard there was instead an intricate tangle of metal strands, caught in a curling pattern that formed a cage around the top of her hand. It was clearly meant mainly for one-handed use - if she needed both hands, she could wrap one around the other. Otherwise, her left arm was free to hold a knife, or shield, or nothing.

The blade itself was powerful and grooved with a line down each side. Set into the metal on both sides were runes Svarla could not understand - curls of letters she didn’t recognize, sharp lines and angles that made words she couldn’t speak. The metal was a deep burnished copper color, shot through with glints of gold, and the weave around her hand was a deeper, darker shade of shimmering brown, the iron heavy in that part of the metal. As she turned the blade, colors flared across its surface, reflecting in the early sunlight.

“It’s beautiful,” Svarla breathed, turning the blade in her hand. The edges flashed brilliantly in the light from the morning sun; she could almost feel the light humming through the blade.

“What will you name it?” Master Inthyril asked her, tilting their head to the side and folding their hands. “It is your sword. You give it the title it will be known by.” They smiled. “It is unique, after all. The only one of its kind.”

Svarla paused, swallowing

Elven blades were incredibly rare outside of the Principalities. Even if she died, someone would take her blade, and it would be used for a long,  _ long _ time; they were nearly impossible to destroy. This name would be around as long as the blade was.

She turned it again. The edges flashed, a rainbow of colors reflected over the wall for a split second. She glanced to the light, then back to the blade.

“Parhelion,” she said, “like the fragments of rainbows.”

Master Inthyril nodded, smiling. “Parhelion it is,” they said. “Leave the blade with me. I will make a sheath for it.”

Svarla lowered Parhelion and handed the blade back to Master Inthyril. When she let go, she felt as if something had been taken from her; the blade’s warmth and presence matched her own. It really was hers.

Master Inthryil looked to Parhelion, then up to Svarla. “As I had hoped,” they mused. “It is tuned to you.”

“What does that mean?”

“You helped create it. Its resonance is in your bones. You are one with it.” They nodded sharply. “A masterwork, indeed. I will be sad to see this one leave Dawnvale.”

Svarla looked down. “I’m sorry I made you do this for a sword you don’t even get to keep,” she began, but Master Inthryil flapped their hands in front of her face.

“Nonsense,” they snapped. “I would not suffer a blade I make  _ for someone _ to be anything less than phenomenal. Our land is, by nature, neutral, but your goal is noble. This sword will help you. Now go! Before you collapse in my forge.”

Svarla obliged, returning to the room where she’d stayed. She slept half the day and woke up in the late afternoon to eat with some of the elves and ready her things - her bags were gone, left behind after Blackrock, but the elves had given her some basic travel provisions (“Don’t bargain for these,” Marishke had told her, smiling. “They’re gifts. Common needs.”).

When night fell, she remained awake for hours, pacing. The heir. The heir. She was going to find the heir and return them to Kendali. She would likely have to fight Sir Ilian for the right to bring the heir back, have to guide them to the throne room. She’d have to fight through an army.

And if she was right, and Sir Ilian and Lady Allweather were allied heavily, she would probably need to fight undead.

Even from here, from her room, she could hear the hum of Parhelion, calling to her across the Sunwood. She found herself standing to face the gully of the forges, straining to hear it.

If there were undead, she thought, Parhelion would help her deal with them.

And Eagle. Would Eagle be able to come? Her thoughts shifted to the therianthrope - she was trapped, but she’d said she had a way out… maybe.

Chathranda had been clear on her terms, though: that Eagle was not getting out. Svarla paced. Eagle was… there was something the horse had told her before Blackrock that was pricking at her mind, and she had to know what it had meant. If it had any relevance to what was going on. If it did… Eagle might be able to leave. She might go free.


	13. With The Sun At Our Backs

She met the horse the next day, after a message sent to her in the morning told her that she was going to be given her armor and sword and escorted to the border today. With that she was happy; she needed to get out of Dawnvale and find the heir as soon as she could.

The horse was in its own area of the Sunwood, a safe grove carpeted in lush, vibrant grass. Svarla noted that its wings and tail had been groomed and oiled and that its coat was gleaming, perfect and dark in the sunlight. “You look good,” she commented, as she stepped down into the grove.

It looked up from where it had been browsing on the grass and swallowed. “I was - what happened to your hair?”

Svarla ran her fingers across her scalp. “I cut it off,” she said.

“Ah… of course.” It seemed a little alarmed. “I was groomed by elves,” the horse told her. “I had no other choice, seeing as my Queen is gone.”

“We’re going to find the new heir,” Svarla said. “You won’t be alone for long.”

“So I’ve heard,” the horse said. “You and I and Eagle.”

There was a moment of silence. “...Eagle’s not coming,” Svarla said slowly. “You know that, right?”

“What?”

“She’s imprisoned.”

“Why?”

“For some - look, I actually have a question for you.” Svarla leaned against a tree, deep brown bark coated in emerald mosses. “Before Blackrock, we were arguing, and you said something to me - you said you let Eagle ride you because ‘she is a royal.’” She glanced up, tapping one finger on her chin. “What does that mean?”

The horse shook some of its mane-feathers out of its face. “She’s descended from the Prince of Skyhaven,” it said, as if it were obvious. “Didn’t she tell you?”

“No?!”

“Oh.” It paused. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that, then.”

“ _ Why _ are they -” Svarla took a breath and let it out. “I… fine. Fine. Either way, she’s not coming with us. It’s just you and I. We’re going to try and fly to find the new heir.”

“I assume you have some sort of weapon?”

“Yes. The elves are making new armor for me. It won’t be as heavy as my old armor - I’ll be able to ride in it, so you don’t have to worry about that. We can hurry, try and find the heir sooner. We have to do that before Lady Allweather and Sir Ilian do.”

“I understand.” The horse tossed its head again and flicked its tail up, turning to face Svarla. “When do we leave?”

“Later today. I should have my armor and Parhelion, and then we go.” She didn’t like the idea of not having Eagle there. For some reason, she missed the therianthrope; her sharp eyes and sharper tongue were… endearing, perhaps? She felt like Parhelion did when around Svarla, like she belonged there.

Marishke helped Svarla pack everything she needed for the trip. “You be safe,” she said, unexpectedly, as Svarla tightened a strap on one of her bags. The elf was wringing their hands, eyes downcast. “You’re going to dangerous places.”

“I know,” Svarla said.

“No, you don’t,” Marishke countered. “This woman you fight - you say she’s a necromancer. You say she works magic.” They paused. “There is a reason we stay inside our realms. Outside of them we are a threat to the world. We were once, and we could be again. They turned us to this.” They gestured vaguely, to all of Dawnvale. “They would again. When you humans turn your power against others, it is strong. Too strong.”

Svarla nodded. “I… I suppose I’ll find out,” she said, shivering.

She took her bags out of the building she was in and down to a wide open pavilion ringed by trees and adorned with candles that flickered in many colors. The horse was there already, waiting for her; a young elf with a soft feathery-looking tendrils trailing from her head to the ground was there, stroking its mane and tail, brushing her hands over the wings. It seemed to be enjoying this.

Also there were Master Inthyril and the armorsmiths, who looked smug and pleased with themselves. “Svarla Keshani,” said one of the armorers, stepping forward, “behold.”

Svarla’s new armor was golden, gleaming and brilliant in the late morning sun. The armorers darted around her to put it on - it fit to her form.

It was made of intricate metal scales, each one a thin-hammered piece of metal linked to the others. The edges were smooth and each one was rounded - trying to strike Svarla, trying to edge a sword up underneath them, would prove very difficult indeed. The mail covered her entire body, and was mixed with stronger metal plates over her sternum and collarbone, on her arms and legs, in her boots. It was extraordinary - she felt exposed, because she wasn’t used to carrying this little weight when armored.

“And the helmet,” one of them said, smiling. “Don’t forget.”

The helmet was fit to her skull and topped with a ridge that swept back to her neck, pressing close with padding against the bone, and setting a protective piece of metal directly over the bridge of her nose. It was so close to her skin it didn’t even block her vision at all, and she could feel it brushing against her jaw when she spoke, but it didn’t poke or prod. Around her neck fastened a spiderweb-fine mesh of chain that she could barely feel, yet that she  _ knew _ would stop a blow if one reached her. She took a few experimental steps in the new suit and reached for her blade.

It wasn’t there. Her hand swiped through nothing; she turned back, embarrassed, and saw Master Inthyril step forward, smiling.

“Here,” they said, and offered up to her a long, elegant sheath. “This belongs to you.”

It was made of rich brown leather, oiled, and held together and capped with deep copper metal - the same type that was within Svarla’s sword. She could see the basket hilt of Parhelion sitting comfortably in the top of it, and she accepted the sheath and the belt that went with it and buckled them around her waist.

_ That _ felt right. The sword hummed next to her, pleased to be with her, and she drew it in one swift, practiced motion.

It caught the morning light and flashed a rainbow of colors around the pavilion, shimmering off the walls. Svarla grinned fiercely at the feel of the sword in her hand, how it vibrated with joy to be with her. The only thing missing was Eagle, now.

She turned back to the others, and with shock, saw a brilliant stream of color pour down through one of the openings: Chathranda, in a globby mass of rose gold and scales and silk. She collected herself in the air and smiled down.

“Good luck,” she said simply.

“Anything else I need to know?” Svarla asked, looking up to her.

Chathranda sighed deeply.

“Hey, idiots,” called a voice behind Svarla. “I’m coming, too.”

With a shock, Svarla turned to see Eagle standing there, holding a small sack in one hand and bouncing impatiently on her toes. “Eagle?!”

“Turns out I get to go after all,” Eagle said, with a shrug. “Can we please leave before they change their minds?”

Chathranda looked to Eagle, nodded, and gestured. “Our finest will escort you to the border,” she said, bowing her head again. Her hair billowed in a glowing halo around her face. “I wish you success in what you wish to do.”

Marishke led Svarla, Eagle, and the horse out of the Sunwood, and another elf - this one with strangely long legs and a neck that let them look all the way behind them - guided them from there to the border. Through the journey, the Elders sang across the sky, notes vibrating through the air. Svarla actually felt them catch on Parhelion’s blade and frowned. “What are they singing about?”

The elf guiding them tilted his head to the side, flicking his shell-like ears forward to catch the sound. “You,” he finally said.

“...what?!”

“You’re the first human to come here in decades,” he said, with a shrug. “And the first to bargain with us in centuries. The first to treat us with respect. It’s only natural that you’re something of a sensation.”

“About  _ me… _ ” Svarla paused. “I’m just a knight,” she finally said. “Not even a knight! A failed knight.”

“Perhaps,” the elf said carefully, “your status is not determined by one human queen. It is not up to you what others determine you are.” He paused. “They are calling you the Golden Knight.”

Svarla went quiet.

The edge of Dawnvale was a vast, shimmering bubble that started at the ground and stretched upwards out of view into the sky. Svarla could see the world beyond distorted and wavering in the bubble’s surface. The elf guiding her halted and bowed.

“This is where you leave,” he said. “I wish you luck.”

“Thank you,” Svarla said, because this was not a bargain - it was a blessing, and she accepted it. She bowed back to him, turned, and stepped through the bubble.

Beyond Dawnvale, on the rocky ridge that led out of the forested hollow, the world was almost colorless. The interior had been breathtakingly beautiful, and Svarla hadn’t even realized it until she compared it to the outside. Was the world really this drab, this gray?

She glanced down at her own armor - it still gleamed that brilliant gold, as if the Dawnvale sun shone upon it. She pulled Parhelion a centimeter out of its sheath and nodded when she saw the flicker of rainbow across its surface. These things still carried Dawnvale’s brilliance with them.

Dawnvale’s colors were truer, but they were all it had. That place was gorgeous, but it was still - it did not move forward. It simply was.

This world, dull as it was, grew and changed. Svarla pushed Parhelion back and looked forward with a smile. She was going to help change it.


	14. Storms over Esterly

Lady Myra Allweather was not pleased with the idea of anyone searching for another heir.

“They must not have found my body at Blackrock, and they knew I got away,” Svarla muttered, staring at a massive thunderstorm that was sweeping across the land from the west; the fourth one in the last two days. “But… how could they have known I survived?”

“...you weren’t awake for our escape, were you?” Eagle asked.

“No, why?”

“That Lady Myra person? She can see in the storms, I guess. Bitch saw everything. She kept battering us around with the winds until we landed. Almost knocked us clean off loads of times. It was all I could do to hold you on.” She shrugged. “I guess she spotted us and just isn’t taking chances.”

Both Svarla and Eagle could ride the horse (Eagle perched on the back behind Svarla, clinging to her torso), if needed, and Eagle was occasionally in the form of her monstrous were-eagle, and could fly then. That wasn’t  _ always _ good - once, the horse and Svarla had to frantically dive and catch Eagle when she unexpectedly fell back to humanoid form in the middle of a flight - but it did help them cover ground quickly.

As they flew - Dawnvale was far to the north of Ruval, some fifty kilometers south of the Ventash border - Svarla began to behold what Lady Myra Allweather was wreaking on Kendali.

She’d been in Dawnvale for a week and a half. In that time, she saw, Lady Allweather had sent enough storms over the land to sink nearly every farm-field within three hundred kilometers of the border into a pulpy muck. There were flooded lowlands everywhere she looked, and once when she looked down she spotted an army moving southwards. As they went over, Eagle gasped and gripped Svarla’s midsection more tightly.

“What is it?” Svarla hissed, worried the army would fire at them.

“They’re all dead,” Eagle whispered. “All of them.

The army continued to lumber south, slow, incessant, unsleeping. They were the dead that Lady Allweather was raising. Svarla had been right about her goals - she was going to try and conquer Esterly, and then the Chalavan Empire. She intended to take over the continent.

What Marishke had said about the elves haunted Svarla. How the people of the human countries had driven them so far back, into the Principalities - if magic they possessed could do that to the elves, what could it do to Esterly? To the Empire?

That was to say nothing of Girak, across the sea to the west, the continent ruled by the gods. The stonedwellers, the people of the gods, were powerful, but… if Lady Allweather harnessed the full power of the continent against them, she could overhaul Esterly's navy and wage a war that would coat the planet in smoke.

Overhead, a river of crows wound silently southwards, swirling over the undead army in dark clouds of whispering wings. They followed the death that would wash up in the wake of this war.

Svarla urged the horse to fly faster.

Lady Allweather could see them through the sky. That much was obvious - she began to try and ground them at every opportunity, slamming wind and rain down over the landscape in slate-gray sheets, dousing the days in hail and the nights in fog.

The fog was frightening, but Svarla had already dealt with Duskmeadow. On impulse she pulled Parhelion from it's sheath; it gleamed in the dark, a soft light in the fog, and with it they picked their way across the wet northern moor.

A week and a half in, they found a zone where the storms unexpectedly stopped. They were curving to the Northwest of Ruval, headed for the coast, when the skies cleared in minutes and they left a churning, frustrated storm front behind.

“What's happening?” Svarla asked, looking about. Eagle peered to the north and gasped.

“Look,” she breathed, pointing. Svarla squinted.

To the north there was a dark carriage on the road. At the moment it was stopped; Svarla narrowed her eyes and, as she watched, saw the door swing open and a figure climb out.

She could barely see her, but Svarla knew who it was. Her breath caught in her throat; all sound deadened unexpectedly, only the rasp of her breath and the beat of the horse's wings and the thud of her heart echoing loud in her ears.

Lady Myra Allweather watched them from afar, face turned up. She did nothing - she did not move her arms, or speak, or make any move whatsoever. She simply looked upon them from afar, silent.

“That's her,” Eagle breathed.

Svarla's armor winked in the sunlight, and she felt the hum of Parhelion strengthen to a growl at the sight of the queen of Ventash. But she yanked her gaze away.

Lady Allweather would not storm the path to her own coronation. She would keep it clear; she could not strike them down now.

The horse pumped its wings and sailed westward.

Once they were out of Lady Allweather’s path, the storms resumed. The horse had to fly low enough to avoid lightning, high enough to avoid notice, and carefully because the winds were intent on tearing them apart.

They flew at night, when it would be harder to see them; during the day they hid underneath rocky outcroppings, or trees, or in caverns they could find in the hills. As they left the northern portion of the country behind and headed westward towards the sea, the land dried, first turning from forest to plains, and then from plainsland to desert. It was much harder to hide in the desert; the horse stood out against the pale sand. They had to find overgrown, dried riverbeds to hide in, or - better yet - hollows in hills. The riverbeds they used several times until one of them flash-flooded while they were asleep, nearly sweeping them away; no doubt Lady Allweather’s work.

“Eagle,” Svarla said one day, leaning against the wall of a small sandstone cave that had been worn out of a massive pillar of stone.

“Yeah?”

“I was told that you’re a royal.”

Eagle stiffened where she sat. She’d been scraping away at a piece of sandstone with her claws; the  _ skrt skrrt _ of bone on rock abruptly stopped. “Who told you that?”

“Someone who knew.” It could have been the horse, it could have been the Court. Eagle didn’t know which. Svarla wasn’t about to rat out her temporary mount.

“...they weren’t lying,” Eagle finally said, casting her gaze down to the sandy floor of the hollow. “I am.”

“How?”

“I’m the child of the Prince of Skyhaven,” she said bitterly, setting the rock she’d been holding down. “All the more shame that I was thrown out for the damage I did. Look at that! The Princess-to-be or whatever fucking up literally  _ her entire life! _ ”

Silence. Svarla nodded. “So if they knew you, and knew that - what did you give up to come with me?”

Eagle raised her head and stared over Svarla’s shoulder into the distance, the silhouettes of the distant mountains reflected in her clear gray eyes. “My immortality,” she finally said.

All elves were immortal. They aged, but they never died of age, just became greater with time - some died in war, or of sickness, but those that didn’t became like Chathranda and the Daybreak Court, or like the Prince of Duskmeadow. They became something beyond what they ever could be. But all elves  _ had _ the capability to become that old, to live forever - something humans had been pining after for centuries.

And Eagle had given that up to go free. “How long will you live now?” Svarla asked, almost breathless.

Eagle just shrugged and picked her rock back up.

“That’s a hell of a sacrifice,” Svarla finally said.

“Can’t miss what you didn’t yet experience,” the horse chimed in, from behind Svarla. She rolled her eyes.

“Nah,” Eagle said, and nodded to the horse. “You’re right. Besides, it was either lose it, or keep it and spend the entire time in that cage.” She shook her head. “Better to be free.”

Svarla was speechless. She turned her gaze to the cavern floor. Eagle returned to scratching at the rock, picking the sandstone away, grain by grain.

Two days later they made it over the Skaldring, the mountain range between the desert and the sea, and crossed into Esterly. There they finally felt Lady Allweather’s grasp on the sky around them slacken. Esterly was a long, narrow strip of rocky coastline and forest - part of the Roaming Coast and the entirety of Brindlewald. It was unique and desolate, all coniferous trees and fern-covered ground clinging onto the edges of black cliffs over pale, driftwood-strewn beaches. Greyhaven was pretty far south along the shore, situated where the Ahofu River met the sea. The horse was able to fly incredible distances on the winds that swept in from the water, and Svarla marveled as they soared alongside the massive, dark-feathered birds that wheeled over the mountains.

Once past Greyhaven, they had to fly low. They’d sailed as high as they could over the city to avoid notice, going at noon to remain in the sun and impossible to sea, and dropped down just past the city’s southern limits.

Thus it was early afternoon as they angled downwards and skated along the edge of the dark cliffs. Here the giant trees of Brindlewald seemed more reluctant to edge closer to the sea, possibly due to the strong winds, possibly because the ground was more rock than soil. The only things clinging to the barren point were seaside grasses.

Svarla’s heart pounded. Finally. The heir was so close.

She hoped Lady Allweather hadn’t killed them.

The horse beat its wings once. Svarla scoured the rocks for any sign of a dwelling, of the spit known as Astora’s Reach. Above her, Svarla could hear the muffled thud of Eagle’s massive wings.

She peered through the mists. This was no simple haze - no, it was a thick sea fog, thicker even than the haze of Duskmeadow. Svarla felt a jolt when she remembered Chathranda’s story - that the nurse had delivered the heir to Farshore, the elven realm of the sea. This was probably their border, their defense.

Eagle, above, let out a cry. Svarla’s attention snapped back up - there, ahead of them, a spur of black stone stretched out over the gray waves, surrounded by fog. The sun was hidden from view by the low clouds; the world was thrown into monochrome. The only color was Svarla in her armor, and Parhelion, and even they seemed dimmed here.

On the high tip of the spur was a lighthouse, gray and spiraling upwards, unlit. Aside from the spire Svarla did not see a dwelling - at first. As she drew closer, she spotted a stone chimney poking up out of the grass.

This was it.


	15. Rising Tide

The horse backwinged, sending tatters of mist swirling away from the grass, and landed. It was almost silent. Svarla dismounted and glanced around.

The fog was thick, only clear enough to see the dim shadows of objects, people. Svarla pulled her helmet off, tucking it under one arm, and hesitantly walked towards the chimney, wading through the dewey grass. A small hollow led down to a wooden door set into a sturdy stone wall. Svarla knocked; there was no answer. Somewhere further back towards the trees she heard the thump of Eagle setting down.

She glanced around again, at what of her surroundings she could see, and did a double-take - there was someone standing at the edge of the cliff, staring out to sea. Svarla swallowed her nervousness, heading towards them, and the horse followed.

“Greetings,” Svarla called, when she was close enough to be heard even in this muted air. “I am Svarla Keshani, last knight of Kendali loyal to the throne, and I have come to help you reclaim your country.”

The figure turned their head, just enough for Svarla to catch their profile in the mist - they had a distinct face, a curved nose and sharp chin and jaw, hair that swept back over their ears from a flat, high forehead. They waited a moment before saying, “Has something happened to my sister, the Queen?”

“She is dead,” Svarla called back, swallowing again. “She was killed by Ventash in a fortress over the border after the capital fell.”

The heir turned swiftly, hair flying. Their eyes were wide; one hand was by their side, half-raised in reaction, the other was resting atop a walking-stick. “She - what?! The capital…”

“The rule of Kendali now falls to the queen of Ventash,” Svarla said, looking down, “if you should fail to appear.”

The heir narrowed their eyes. “I cannot let that happen,” they murmured. “Clearly much has happened that I have yet to learn of.”

Svarla nodded wordlessly.

“Come,” the figure said. “We will discuss this inside.”

With that they swung the walking-stick up and Svarla realized with a shock that it was not a walking-stick - it was, in fact, a battleaxe, over half the size of the heir themselves. They swung the blade up and around and rested the axe heavily across their shoulders in one smooth motion as they turned and started towards the house. Svarla caught her breath as they passed; they were easily half a meter taller than she was, and their black hair was bound away from their face in countless intricate braids, some twined into others, some hanging free just behind their ears and all the way down to the small of their back. Their eyes, when they flicked them over to Svarla, were dark and streaked with black like the previous Queen’s, but held a vigor and mischief that Svarla had never gotten close enough to see if Almera had.

Queen Padhrudah had not been anything like this.

The heir strode by and paused when they saw the horse. “Ah,” they said, hanging their wrists over the axe and stepping up to get a closer look. “My sister’s mount.”

“Yes,” the horse said.   


“I never had one. Obviously. Have you come to help me with that?”

“I have no other choice.”

The heir snorted. “You make it sound like you’d rather die,” they muttered, shaking their head. “We’ll go over that later. I promise, it will be more fun than you seem to believe.”

They led Svarla back to the small house hidden in the earth and opened the door, swinging the axe down to get it through the opening. Once they had ducked through they beckoned Svarla followed and kicked the door shut after her.

“So, Svarla Keshani,” they said, setting the battleaxe against the wall and seating themselves at a small wooden table, “tell me what has happened to my homeland.”

Svarla pulled out the other chair at the table and sat, putting her helmet on the table beside her. She told the whole story from the beginning - from Sir Ilian’s takeover of the capital to her bargain with the Prince and her escape from Kendali to her finding Eagle - 

“Interesting,” the heir interrupted, halfway through. “Where is Eagle now?”

“Outside. She’s in her - um, she’s in her other form now. She can’t enter the building.”

“Ah. Go on.” The heir nodded.

Svarla told them about Blackrock Fort, about how she’d almost died and how the elves had saved her, about what she’d given up for Chathranda - withholding the specifics - and how she’d then come to find the heir. “And now I am here to help you take Kendali back,” she finished, breathless, “though I do not know the way.”

The heir was silent for a long moment. “I never thought my sister would fall for such a plot,” they murmured, “but I also thought that she would never be targeted. I suppose I should have been wiser, knowing my family’s rather unfortunate history. Perhaps bargained something with the elves for her protection.” They sighed. “Alas, it’s too late for that now. Very well. I’ll fight this knight for my throne back.”

“It’s not just him,” Svarla reminded them. “It’s Lady Allweather, too.”

“Of course. The necromancer.” The heir narrowed their eyes. “I will rip my country from her hands if need be.”

This was not what Svarla had expected. She’d expected… someone more like Padhrudah. Instead there was a warrior like her, someone powerful enough to take her breath away.

To be honest: she was glad. She wasn’t sure how she had intended to take back the throne alone, but knowing that the heir was a warrior.. They would be able to help. They’d be able to fight for themselves. And Svarla would fight at their side.

“Majesty, I will fight with you,” Svarla said. “I - I would swear the oath of service to you, if you would let me.”

The heir paused. “I suppose I do need a knight,” they mused, after a moment. “All monarchs do, don’t they?”

Svarla knelt, on the uneven stone floor of the small house under the hill on the rocky point on the coast of Esterly, looking at a dark-robed figure who was supposed to have died. She drew Parhelion and had to catch her breath again as the sword flared with light, sending ripples like the sun through water across the walls and ceiling.

“In life I will guard thee,” she began, and felt Parhelion thrum in her hands. The heir stood quietly, folding their hands together in front of them. “in death I will serve thee in war I am your sword and shield, in peace I am the rule you wield.”

The heir watched them silently, dark eyes deep in a proud face reflecting the image of Svarla in her golden armor kneeling before them.

“I will guard you night and day,” Svarla promised, those words that she’d memorized, that she’d sung to herself before going to Ruval to prove her worth to the world. “At your side I’ll always stay - through profit and through pain, through sunlight and through rain, beyond reason or memory, for my life, to the day of my death and beyond, past when my spirit is forgotten and I become nothing but an etching in the wall, I am yours.”

A distant wave crashed into Astola’s Reach - the tide had come in. The heir reached out and took Parhelion’s handle, sending a thrill through the blade and through Svarla, and lifted it from her hands. They turned it over in their hands, then reached out and tapped Svarla once on each shoulder and then on the top of her head.

“I accept you as a Knight of my realm and a servant of my own, to protect and watch over me through my reign,” the heir intoned, the response to the oath. “For your life, to the day of your death and beyond, past when even our memory fails and your name is only an etching on the wall, you are mine and I will keep you close.”

That was… a rather untraditional addition to the ending of the response. Svarla said nothing as the heir placed Parhelion back in her hands and she bowed her head and waited.

“Stand,” the heir said, and Svarla did so, sheathing her blade as she did so. The heir looked down at her, into her eyes, and smiled. “You are a true Knight now,” they said. “Let’s go get our kingdom back.”

_ Our _ kingdom? Svarla swallowed hard and nodded, reaching for her helmet. “Majesty, do you have armor? Possessions?”

“I’ll gather them quickly.”

“I’m afraid we will have to walk most of the way back,” Svarla said regretfully. “The horse cannot carry us both.”

A shame,” the heir sighed. “You keep calling it that. Does it have a name?”

“Not one that I can use. I am not allowed to name it.”

“Well, I am,” the heir decided, nodding firmly. “I’ll do that in a bit.”

“A - alright.” They were very… to-the-point. Svarla stood awkwardly by the door. “Majesty, do you require any assistance?”

“No, and don’t call me that,” the heir said, rolling their eyes. “Samundra will do.”

Samundra? That wasn’t the name of any of the Padhrudah family. Svarla didn’t recognize it. “Is that - “

“No, it’s not my regal name.” Samundra smiled. “My regal name is for when I’m trouble.”

Svarla nodded nervously.

Samundra swept around the room, heavy boots thumping on the stone. “I don’t need you to carry anything,” they said. “I can handle it.”

“Majesty, it would be my honor to assist you.”

“Uh-huh.” Samundra sighed. “I’ll handle it.”

It took them a few minutes to pack everything they needed - their accomodations were sparse but clean, simple. Svarla kept quiet; it was unbecoming of a royal to live in such conditions.

_ I sound like the horse, _ Svarla thought, and shook her head.

Samundra turned, slinging a pack over their shoulder, and Svarla realized they’d donned a deep sea-blue cloak. “Alright,” they said. “We can leave. But when we go we need to stop by the edge of Greyhaven.”

“The city? Majesty, why?”

“Need a replacement for the lighthouse.” Samundra jerked a thumb back in the direction of the stone spire. “I can’t just abandon it. It matters for ships coming up from the south.”

“To avoid the rocks?”

“To avoid the  _ elves. _ And the rocks.” Samundra stepped past Svarla and pushed the door open, ducking under the stone lintel again and heading out. “Come on. You said we don’t have much time.”

Svarla followed. “We need to head east,” she said, “out of Esterly and into Kendali, and hopefully north once we’re in the country to head into Ruval.” She paused. “I… flew in, so I don’t know the best way out.”

“From Greyhaven we could follow the river east,” Samundra said, “though it would lead us north of Ruval. I would say we do that to trick Lady Allweather, but apparently she’ll see whatever we do anyways, so there’s no point.”

Svarla shrugged. “It’s true,” she said. “Um. Majesty.”

“Please stop.” Samundra reached back inside and grabbed their battleaxe, gripping it easily - they didn’t need to throw it over their shoulders. They held it easily in one hand. Now that Svarla got a look at it, it wasn’t an ordinary weapon - she could see the ripples of black sea glass in the blade, the barren white of driftwood making up the handle, the dark green of seaweed wrapped around it as binding. Clustered near where the stone met the wood were barnacles, still alive; this was an elven weapon as well. Svarla stepped closer as Samundra shut the door with the heavy  _ clunk _ of a lock, not paying attention. She half-drew Parhelion, bringing its hilt close to the axe, and the hum strengthened.

“Maj - er, Samundra,” Svarla started, fumbling over her own words at first as she stepped back, “if I - I may ask, how did you get your blade?”

“Breakwater? Same way you got yours,” Samundra said as they turned from the door, nodding. “Bargained for it.”

Svarla nodded. “Ah.”

“You’re wondering what I paid. I can’t taste, is all.”

“...that’s odd,” Svarla said, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. That was rude!

Samundra laughed, throwing their head back. “Hah! No, the elves thought it would be important. Probably because I can’t detect poison. But if I’ve already eaten it, it’s probably too late anyway, so I don’t care.” They shrugged.

The horse tossed its head. “Are we ready to depart?” it asked, looking pensively at Samundra.

“We are,” they said. “No saddle?”

“...no.”

“That’s alright. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.” They pulled their head back and cocked it slightly to the side. “How different can it be from a dolphin?”

The horse sent Svarla a panicked glance. She shook her head; she couldn’t help now.

“Anyway,” Samundra continued, “you need a name now.”

“For you, of course,” the horse replied.

They viewed the horse critically. “Riptide,” they finally said.

Immediately the horse began to sputter incoherently. “Wh - I -  _ what?! _ ”

“What? It’s a good name! It’s  _ powerful! _ What more could you want?”

“I’m - “ the horse paused, taking a few deep breaths. “I am a mount of a  _ royal, _ I am supposed to be  _ elegant _ and  _ sophisticated _ -”

“Yeah, but -” Samundra paused, perplexed. “But what about being powerful?”

“That’s what the Knights are for!”

“I am powerful too. So, I’m calling you Riptide.”

The horse slumped. “Very well,” it muttered, wings drooping nearly to the ground.

Samundra snorted. “Stop fussing,” they told it. “I’m going down to the edge of the city. Come if you like. If you do, we’re leaving from there.”

“We should be worried about spies seeing us and reporting us to Lady Allweather,” Svarla said.

“She can see us through the sky. Is it really that big of a deal?”

Svarla paused. “Nnnno,” she said slowly. “I suppose we should… Eagle?” She turned, looking into the mists. “Eagle, are you near?”

For a moment, there was silence. Svarla turned towards the distant shadows of the trees, peering into the haze between her and it. “Eagle?” she called, nervously. Had something happened to her?

There was a rustling and a thumping and Eagle came lumbering out of the fog, long form slinking through it, back hunched. Svarla let out a breath, smiling. “There you are,” she said, and stepped towards her. Eagle swept over through the grass, distastefully trying to keep her feathers out of the wet, and rammed her head into Svarla’s shoulder, rumbling slightly. Svarla grinned and reached up, stroking the soft feathers of her head.

Samundra raised their eyebrows. “This is the elf?” they asked.

“This is Eagle, my friend, who is an elf,” Svarla said, defensively. She took a sharp breath -  _ watch your tone with your monarch! _ \- but Samundra grinned instead, lifting their free hand.

“No, no, I see,” they said. “Badass form. We’ll talk when you’re not in it.”

Eagle stared at them, narrowing her eyes.

“I heard all about you,” Samundra continued, nodding. “You seem neat. Awfully kind things you’ve done for our Golden Knight here.”

Svarla abruptly went red, embarrassed by the title. She hadn’t earned it! The elves had just spontaneously given that to her, it wasn’t…

...it  _ was _ hers. But it was strange, to hear a human say it. To hear this particular human say it. The heir. Samundra.

Eagle slowly lowered her head over Svarla’s shoulder, resting her head - literally larger than Svarla’s own - just on top of her armor. Svarla glanced over, confused, and said, “hey, hey. It’s fine. They’re not - they’re not saying anything bad about you.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Eagle let out a sharp hiss of breath and pulled back, then preened their shoulder feathers. Svarla stared quizzically up at them, then turned to Samundra to find that the heir had already begun to walk towards Greyhaven, Riptide following in their wake. Svarla yelped and hurried to catch up.

A dirt path wound through the grasses along the edge of the spit, perilously close to the edge. Svarla kept peering over and seeing the gray waves throw themselves onto the beach and pull back, sighing, over the wet sand. She shivered.

Samundra led her, Riptide, and Eagle downwards; Eagle wasn’t even on the path, instead walking nearby. She was too large for the beaten dirt trackway.

Greyhaven was a couple kilometers to the north. Samundra did not seem to tire as they strode along, heading east off the spit and then north towards the city. Where the wind lessened, the trackway plunged down from the grassy cliffs into a deep forest, massive trees stretching up to scrape at the bottom of the clouds. Ferns blanketed the ground, and insects swarmed through the air; Samundra seemed not to notice them, but Riptide flicked its tail in irritation to whisk them away, and Eagle left the ground entirely with an irritated hiss. She spread her wings and launched herself upwards, then began to make her way through the canopy, clinging to trees when she could and leaping between the slender trunks. The branches were so far up it was easy for her to fly in the space between the columns of the cathedral.

The forest was silent. Svarla held her breath, not wanting to disturb it. Here, her light was muted, Parhelion’s radiance dimmed by the mist… out of respect, perhaps, for the ancient wood.

The path wound through the underbrush, hemlock and redwood crowding in low and cedar stretching high out of sight. Svarla was completely lost, but followed Samundra as they forged resolutely through the fog.

Abruptly they came out of the forest, out into a wide grassy area, again at the shoreline; but this time, they were at the level of the beach, the cliffs towering above them. Svarla saw a small jetty emerge from the mist, and then a house, built from driftwood and black cliff stone, resting on a rock outcropping just above the high-tide line. Samundra headed for it.

The beach was silent. Svarla kept away from the water; it was close, too close, and she feared it, ever so slightly. It wasn’t her domain.

Samundra didn’t seem to mind the water. It washed harmlessly over their clothes and boots and seeped away, leaving the fabric and leather dry. It loved them.

The steps up to the small house were rickety at best, and Svarla waited at the bottom as Samundra clomped up and knocked heavily on the door. It opened, revealing a younger boy, perhaps fourteen.

“I’m leaving,” Svarla said, to him. “Tell your elder sibling that the lighthouse is now theirs.” They produced a key - heavy, iron, corroded slightly and damp from mist or perhaps seawater. They turned it in their fingers, then held it out; the young boy took it, nodding. “It will open all doors,” Samundra told him. “Make sure they know that.”

He nodded again. Samundra turned and headed down the steps, stopping with a heavy huff of breath next to Svarla.

“Well!” they said. “Now we can go.”


	16. One Down

They headed eastwards, away from the shore. Svarla thought that perhaps, away from the ocean, Samundra would lose some of their allure, but it wasn’t the case; they carried the heavy air of the sea with them, smelling like salt and sand and foam.

The Skaldring, the mountains that stood between them and Kendali, were a challenge to cross on foot. They had to search the Brindlewald trees for the rocky passes that led through the range, and thus made their way over the sharp stone peaks to where the rain failed.

East of the Skaldring, the land was a desert, dry and parched until the eastern winds brought moisture in from the south or the north to nourish the land. The mountains were sharp, untouched by rain, but the winds of the desert also swept across them, weathering the sandstone of the lower peaks away over hundreds of years.

The four of them found that the mists did not follow when they crossed to the eastern half of the Skaldring. Samundra squinted in the sunlight, frowning at it, and was forced to remove half their layers; the land was too hot for them. “This is disgusting,” they muttered, draping two shirts over one arm and buttoning their gambison back up while the four of them stopped for an afternoon.

It was hot. Too hot, in fact - the desert air boiled with heat waves, twisting up from the rock as they began to climb down through the mountains.

Lady Allweather did not want them continuing. She knew where they were. Clouds parted to go around them, to keep them in the direct heat; the night threatened flash floods, forcing them to be ever wary.

But after half a week of hiking through the sandstone hills, that abruptly changed. As they were nearing the foothills of the mountains, a series of abrupt red canyons and rough slopes and cliffs, the sky began to cloud.

“Bad news,” Samundra said, looking up. “Lady Allweather has something planned.”

“What, though?” Svarla asked, frowning at the sky. “Does she intend to drown us? She’d be hard-pressed to manage that, as we stand on the top of the cliffs.”

Samundra narrowed their eyes. “The shape of the clouds, look,” they said, and pointed - the storm was in a wide swathe of clouds that were hovering, seemingly unmoving, in a strip across the desert ground. Storm fronts did not come from the north, and they certainly didn’t stay in one place.

Eagle, in her elven form, narrowed her eyes. “Hey,” she said, tapping Svarla on the shoulder. “There’s something coming.”

“What?” Svarla peered in the direction Eagle was looking. “What is it?”

“I see dust, something running. It’s closer than it seems.” Eagle pulled her head back, and now Svarla could see it, too - she hadn’t noticed it at first, but there was a trail of dust kicked up as something went skidding across the desert at speed. It was close to the foothills, uncomfortably so, and was traveling entirely in the shadow of the clouds.

“What do you suppose _ that _ is?” Samundra asked, raising one eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Eagle murmured.

“Whatever it is,” Svarla said, “it travels with Lady Allweather’s favor.”

They all found out what it was the following day. They’d camped as quietly and invisibly as they could manage, worried about being detected by whatever the emissary had been, but in the morning they packed quickly and set out.

An hour after they’d set out, they were beginning their descent towards one of the larger canyons, standing at the edge, when a hissing sound caught Svarla’s attention. She turned in time to see movement, and then the four of them had to scatter as a monstrous beast burst from behind a stone and charged at them.

Riptide went right off the edge, spreading its wings and flapping frantically. Svarla dove to her right, and Eagle went to the left. Samundra spotted Riptide and called “Here!” before backing up and casting themselves off, catching the winged horse as it went by and swinging onto its back.

The beast was a drake of some sort, pebbled hide patterned in black and yellow-orange. Its thick neck and head were flat, and when it opened its mouth, a long black tongue flickered out. The tail was long but stumpy, and it held itself hunched up, as if it were wounded.

Svarla paid less attention to the beast and more attention to its rider.

There was a taller man seated in a saddle on the drake’s back, just where the neck met the shoulders. He held a pair of reins that were attached to the corners of the drake’s mouth; the leather of the saddle wrapped around its bulky throat and thick chest.

His skin was a pale sandy color, as was his hair; his eyes were a shocking light blue. The armor he wore bore the winged horse of Kendali; his face bore a cruel smile.

“Sir Ilian,” Svarla hissed, and drew Parhelion.

“Oh!” Sir Ilian said, smirking. “A nice new sword you’ve got. I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

He kicked the drake hard, in two raw spots on its neck, and it croaked out a roar and charged forwards. Svarla threw herself sideways, armor grating on the stone; the drake skidded as it went by, tail thrashing.

How was she supposed to fight this thing?!

She’d hoped that it would send itself off the edge of the cliff with momentum, but it seemed quite adept at turning itself around, regardless of how large it was. Every time she dodged, it slowed and went after her again.

“Heads-up!” Samundra shouted, and Svarla ducked as Riptide came in at a dive, black wings half-folded. Samundra swung out with the battleaxe, whooping, and Sir Ilian had to duck as it whisked through approximately where his head would have been. His eyes went wide as he watched Riptide flare its wings and swoop around, pulling up sharp.

“So you’re the heir,” he snapped. “Our competition. I didn’t even have to find you myself! Thank you for that, Miss Keshani.”

Hearing her last name from his lips made Svarla’s blood boil. “You do not have the right to speak my name,” she snarled, and lifted Parhelion again, settling into a ready stance. Her heart pounded; the blade in her hands shimmered with light.

Eagle was crouched next to a lump of stone, eyes wide, holding nothing but the shortsword she’d gotten way back at Blackrock Fort. Svarla wasn’t sure what she could do in this situation. Sir Ilian had the advantage, and he knew it… though Samundra was airborne, and that meant a lot.

Speaking of: They were coming around again. But this time, Riptide flared its wings early, and came in hooves first, kicking viciously. Sir Ilian didn’t expect it; he put a hand up to ward the horse off, but Svarla saw at least one hoof make solid contact with his arm.

So he could be hurt. She smiled viciously and swung Parhelion in a circle, loosening her wrist.

Riptide pulled away again. Eagle waited until Sir Ilian brought his beast to the center of the small plateau again, waited until he had turned his back to her, and then dashed forwards, leaping over the beast’s furiously whipping tail and landing on its back. Svarla saw her hands rise and fall, saw a spurt of blood, and heard the drake scream.

Sir Ilian turned and struck out with his blade, which he’d drawn. Svarla could see there were circular plates bolted to the hilt; what could those possibly be for? They only hindered movement of the hand.

“Get off,” Sir Ilian snarled, and Svarla saw Eagle leap again, over top of the knight. She landed on the drake’s head and unceremoniously punched it in one eye.

It thrashed its head around, pulling Sir Ilian unexpectedly - his eyes went wide again as it jerked him forwards, and he almost smashed his nose into the drake’s head as it threw it back. Eagle went flying backwards and tried to recover before she hit the stone, skidding a little over the sandy surface.

The drake charged Svarla, this time heading to the side of the canyon, Svarla’s right. She dodged, stood, and waited for it to turn, but the distance wasn’t what Sir Ilian had expected and the drake was still whining over its eye. It misjudged it, scrabbled, and went off the edge.

“Yes!” Eagle shouted, grinning fiercely.

It bellowed once, flailing its stumpy legs, and spread its wings.

“Fuck,” Eagle said.

The masses of tissue that Svarla had ignored, pressed to its sides, flared out into rubbery-looking wings with veined sails. The drake flapped a few times and glided across the narrow gap, landing and clinging to the rocks, before it turned and launched itself back across and clambered up the wall to the plateau again.

Svarla caught a glimpse of Samundra’s horrified stare as Sir Ilian grinned at them. They would not be rid of him that easily; Svarla gripped Parhelion’s hilt as Sir Ilian sent the drake towards her. She rolled to the side again and stood, waiting for Sir Ilian to slow, turn, and charge again.

She was wrong. Sir Ilian had drawn his sword, and as the drake slowed in front of Svarla, he whirled the blade around to point the pommel up and held it out towards her. The metal plate, the circle on the hilt, gleamed faintly.

Oh. That was for magic.

“You had the right idea,” he said, and then Svarla was slammed by some sort of force she could neither see nor fight.

It knocked her backwards, head over heels, and she almost lost her grip on Parhelion as she did so. She felt the ground drop from under her and reached out, but touched nothing - her heart skipped as she saw the edge of the cliff pass her by and she missed it. She caught a glimpse of Eagle’s horrified gaze before she dropped out of sight.

Then it was just cliff. The distance straight down was significant - Svarla wondered if she’d die on impact, or if she would bleed out internally. Either way was terrible… though at least she wouldn’t feel it, thanks to Prince of Duskmeadow. She’d just feel the warmth, maybe some pressure. And then probably nothing.

The sandy canyon wall rushed by. She reached out, trying to catch it, but of course she could do nothing - it was smooth, no protrusions, worn by decades of wind.

...this was embarrassing.

She’d been kicked off an edge and wouldn’t even get the chance to fight the country’s greatest enemy and help her monarch win back their throne. She’d failed in her purpose. She would be seen as an embarrassment to the history of -

A warm, soft, and massive bundle of feathers slammed into Svarla from below and knocked the breath out of her. She lay there, stunned for a moment, and heard the rough screech of Eagle’s voice.

But Eagle was up top, as an elf. Had she just so happened to turn at exactly the moment needed? That was lucky.

“Eagle?” Svarla gasped, staring upwards.

Eagle screeched again in answer, and pumped her wings, driving them upwards. Svarla sat up, frowning - this wasn’t Eagle’s normal size, or her normal call.

It wasn’t. She was sitting on the back of a massive bird, wingtips brushing the sides of the cavern, short neck and proud face with its hooked beak and sharp eyes turned just enough to the side to look at her. The feather crests were still there, but Svarla would not have believed it to be Eagle, save for the eyes - gray, rounded pupils, and black lashes.

“This isn’t your form,” Svarla said.

Eagle narrowed her eyes and beat her wings again, carrying them up. She began to bank slowly; Svarla grabbed onto a few feathers suddenly, worried she’d fall.

The bank was slow and smooth. Eagle turned and soared back towards the plateau, rising above it out of the canyon just as she reached the edge. She screamed, backwinged, and dropped forwards onto the ground - and as she did, her form vanished, condensing into the shape of a small and _ very _ angry elf.

“Fucker,” she snapped, glaring at Sir Ilian. “You knocked my friend off the cliff.”

Svarla stared, eyes wide. She’d - Eagle had just done that… on her own.

“You are _ not _ getting out of this fight easy,” Eagle said, and leaped backwards off the cliff, flipping away and vanishing over the edge.

Seconds later, her monster form burst up, screaming, and dove straight for Sir Ilian. He wasn’t expecting it - she grabbed him with her beak and yanked as hard as she could, skewing her flight over and around and almost slamming herself into the ground.

But it worked. She wrenched him out of the saddle and tossed him to the rocks, where he rolled a few paces before scrambling up, sword drawn. Eagle hissed and spread her wings again.

She was controlling it. Her form - she was in full control. Svarla laughed in spite of herself, delighted.

Sir Ilian whirled at the sound, eyes narrowed. He looked towards the drake, growling deep in his throat, and it skittered reluctantly forwards, making deep whumping noises in is throat as it did so.

Eagle turned, claws tearing dust from the sand, and leaped for Sir Ilian again. He dodged sideways as Svarla had before with a derisive snort, but Eagle wasn’t really trying to catch him - she was putting herself between him and his drake. It stopped when she whirled to face it, hissing, and backed up.

She drove forwards. The drake stumbled back, then bit at her, and she dodged to her left, drawing its attention away from Sir Ilian. Every time its attention lapsed she darted in and nipped its legs or wings or neck, and it bellowed and tried to snap at her again.

Svarla grinned. Eagle had, effectively, just removed the drake from the battle.

With that thought she drove forwards, bringing Parhelion up in a shining arc. She got close enough that Sir Ilian had to parry and their blades met with a clash of metal and a flare of light.

Here came Samundra again as well, and this time Riptide banked and rolled and nearly threw the heir off. Breakwater went swinging towards Sir Ilian; he dropped, ducking the blow, and rolled backwards to put some distance between himself and Svarla. Samundra hissed through their teeth.

Sir Ilian turned his blade and brought the hilt with its metal glyphs up to face Svarla. She took Parhelion and parried in front of her; that same blast of force came rippling through the air in her direction.

But this time, it broke against the flat of the blade and washed harmlessly off to the sides, around her. Sir Ilian jerked his head back, startled.

“So there’s some merit to your reputation,” he said, looking back up to her. There was a hard spark to his blue eyes. “The Golden Knight really has met with the elves.”

“What I have done is none of your business, demon,” Svarla snarled, narrowing her eyes. “Face me and despair!”

Sir Ilian sighed. “How very theatrical,” he muttered, and raised his sword again. Svarla saw a pulse of deep violet light flare out from the glyph and parried instinctively; the bolt pinged off Parhelion and blasted into the plateau rock to her right, scorching a small, black-glass crater into the sandstone. Svarla swallowed hard.

Samundra, meanwhile, had apparently decided that striking from above was not working for them. They brought Riptide down to the ground and spurred it forward with a shout. As they did so Sir Ilian whipped around and Svarla took the moment ot advance, blade at the ready.

Samundra and Svarla began to circle the false knight. He fired bolts of energy in deep, vibrant colors corrupted nearly to black at them both, but Breakwater’s blade was just as adept as Parhelion at turning them aside. Riptide stalked around one side of Sir Ilian and Svarla moved to keep him between the herself and Samundra, so he had to look back and forth to keep an eye on them both.

There was silence as they circled the knight. He stood carefully, long silver blade at the ready, keeping his eyes on both of them at once.

Riptide moved just a little faster, just a step too quick, and he turned and from the hilt of his blade fired a dark bolt. Samundra whipped Breakwater around and blocked the blow; it went pinging off into the canyon, and as Sir Ilian wasn’t looking, Svarla charged him.

He turned quickly enough to parry her blow and exchanged a quick bout of back-and-forth clashes. Up close, Svarla could see the deadly concentration in his eyes, and narrowed her own in response. 

This was the man who had killed her queen and ruined her country. He was going to pay.

Sir Ilian swiped upwards and Svarla threw herself backwards, stepping back out of range of his longsword. Parhelion was out of the way for a split second but back up when she regained her balance; Sir Ilian has his blade held fully extended, watching her.

Riptide circled. Samundra did nothing. Was this a test? It was a test. Svarla drove forwards again and swiped at Sir Ilian, and he blocked, blocked, and kicked her in the chest.

This time she was bowled over backwards. She rolled and sprang up - that was not a move she had expected from him, and she would have to be more wary.

He sprang forwards, grinning, and Svarla parried twice and thrust Parhelion forwards, twisting it around Sir Ilian’s blade in a bind. If she could just get it out of his hand - 

He ducked out of it and grabbed hold of the blade with his other hand, whipping it around towards her. She pulled her head back just in time; the tip of the blade whispered ast her throat, just grazing the golden maille that protected her.

Damn! Svarla struck forwards again, not wanting to give him a chance to recover, and he stumble backwards. She jabbed below his breastplate into the softer chain area and watched in satisfaction as Parhelion cut through the chainmail like it was nothing, slicing into his side - just a tad bit, but enough to make him cry out and move one hand to cover the wound.

Svarla struck again, jabbing the back of his hand, and he yelped and leaped a pace backwards to stay out of range of her blade. But she was not done; she brought it around in a sweep from above and aimed it at his sword hand. At the last moment she turned the flat of the blade to the strike and slammed Parhelion’s full weight and the force of her strike into Sir Ilian’s knuckles; he dropped his blade in shock.

He looked startled, and a little bit scared. Svarla hooked Parhelion’s blade tip around the crossguard of Sir Ilian’s sword and flicked it away, grating over the sandstone. His eyes tracked its path and flicked back to Svarla. She read the slightest hint of panic in them.

“You’re useless without your weapon,” she snapped. “You were never a true Knight.”

“I never intended to be.” Sir Ilian’s expression shifted back to smug superiority, and Svarla readied herself, swinging Parhelion to a ready stance over her shoulder.

Sir Ilian pulled his right glove off and dropped it to the stone. Patterned on the palm of his hand was a black glyphe; Svarla’s eyes widened as he brought it up, aiming towards her.

She dodged as he fired a bolt of rippling black light from it. Why did he have glyphs _ in his skin?! _

Now Samundra stepped in. Riptide charged forwards at Sir Ilian from the side, now that he did not have a blade that could strike it, and Sir Ilian fired one bolt that skimmed just over the horse’s wing before it slammed full-force into him, sending him skidding across the ground. Svarla knew that had to hurt, for someone who could feel pain. She saw one of Riptide’s hooves crunch into his arm and almost felt bad for him.

But he was an enemy, and a terrible one at that. She ran forwards, sword at the ready, and as he tried to raise his right hand she drove Parhelion down and skewered it into the rock. He cried out, tipping his head back, and she stood there, panting.

“I would say,” she gasped, chest heaving, “that you could tell your mistress we are coming. But you won’t be going back to her.”

Sir Ilian looked up to her, eyes wide. “Mistress?” he wheezed, and even now was grinning. “She’s no mistress of mine, Golden One. She’s my sister.”

...Lady Myra Allweather had a brother?

“And she is not going to like what you’ve done to me,” he continued, almost sing-song in his tone. “Oh, no, no, no. She won’t like that at all.”

“She’s going to like this even less,” Svarla decided, and pulled Parhelion out of the ground and his hand. She raised it once and plunged it through his breastplate into his chest, the glittering blade causing the steel around it to glow bright yellow. He gasped once, and she saw his eyes go glazed and pained as she burned a hole in his chest.

It only took him a minute or so to die, and Svarla couldn’t make that any faster. She sat on the ground and waited until he no longer moved or breathed.

Samundra rode over and dismounted, sliding easily off Riptide’s back. “Not easy to ride with no saddle,” they commented, eyeing the horse disdainfully.

“That is not my fault,” Riptide said, refusing to look at them. “I am not the one who wanted to do all sorts of daredevil things.”

Behind everyone, Eagle pinned the drake to the ground and shrieked, looking in their direction. She was using her wing-hands to tug at the straps of the drake’s saddle, but couldn’t get them off.

“What’s she want?” Samundra said, frowning.

Svarla stood and pulled her sword from Sir Ilian with a scrape of metal. It was clean; the blood on it evaporated in the light it radiated. “To break the saddle and set it free,” she answered, and headed over. The drake was struggling where Eagle held it. Svarla carefully slipped her blade under the straps and sawed them off one by one; when she was done, the saddle dropped to the ground, and Eagle motioned for Svarla to move back.

She did. Eagle let the drake up and it scrabbled to a standing position and shook itself, looking towards Sir Ilian. It blinked a few times, licked the tip of its nose, and ambled off into the rocky hills.

Eagle popped out of her monster form, standing from where she was crouched and walking over to Svarla. “It was being controlled,” she explained, with a shrug. “Now it isn’t.”

They turned back to Sir Ilian’s body. Samundra collected his sword from where it lay on the plateau stone and brought it over, turning it over in their hands. “Strange,” they murmured, looking it over. “It’s human-made, but resonating with magic.”

Svarla nodded. When Parhelion had connected with Sir Ilian’s sword, that hum had spiked into a roar that made the entire sword thrum. It was glittering with angry colors just to have Sir Ilian’s blade near, but she got the sense it wasn’t mad - it was protecting her, as it was supposed to, and it was pleased now that one of her enemies was dead.

“...do we just leave him here?” Eagle asked, looking him over. “Should we, like, kick him off the edge or something?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Svarla said immediately, and then paused. “...it feels rude, but it also feels rude to leave him up on this ledge.”

“Rude? He’s evil!”

“Yes, but all people deserve respect!”

Eagle snorted and turned, heading back across the rocks to a shady spot. “Alright, then give him a burial,” she said, with a shrug. “I’ll wait over here for a few days while you dig a grave in the rock and put him in it. Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

Svarla paused. She wasn’t sure what she had expected from an elf who ate human hearts.

Wait. She jogged after Eagle, trying to catch up. “Hey,” she called, when she did, “what about his heart?”

“What about it?”

“I - did you want it?”

“For what?”

“Power.”

Eagle glanced over at her, stopping. “Would you let me have it?” she replied.

Svarla thought about this. “No,” she finally said. “But I wanted to know why you didn’t try to take it.”

“I don’t need it.” Eagle shrugged. “Not necessary.”

“Why?”

“I used them to try and give me enough power to control my forms, but I don’t need that now. I’ve got it.”

“Yeah,” Svarla said, folding her arms. “What - what happened with that? Why now? What changed?”

Eagle looked down and to her left, glaring at the sand. “You were in danger,” she said finally, without looking up. “Nobody else could save you, so I had to.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but if I can get my nice wings when around you, I’m keeping that,” Eagle snapped back, raising her gray eyes.

Svarla nodded slowly. “Alright,” she finally said, and backed off. “Alright.”

They ended up dragging Sir Ilian’s body over to the rocks, into a small hollow, and dumping some sand on him. Svarla did most of it, though Samundra gave in and helped her, as annoyed as they were to be giving any modicum of respect to the man who had killed their sister.

They descended through the canyons at midday, and camped that night at the edge of the red rock foothills. Before them lay the desert and then the plains, vast and dry, and beyond that… Ruval.

Svarla talked to Eagle again after dark, as a fire crackled in the campsite and Samundra sat with the horse, speaking softly and learning how to preen its dark wings. “Eagle,” she said, “what’s your name?”

“Eagle.”

“No, I meant - I meant your real name.”

“Don’t have it anymore,” Eagle said bluntly. “Lost it when I got exiled. Sure, I can remember it, but it doesn’t mean me anymore.”

“...are you ever going to get it back?”

“No. Why? You want it for something?”

“No, I was just…” Svarla paused. “I just wanted to know if there was a better name for you, something better than a derisive designation you gave yourself. You deserve more than that.”

Eagle spat out a laugh. “Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Uh, I’ll stick with Eagle.”

Svarla leaned back against the cool stone, looking up at the stars. She’d left her armor by her bedroll and was enjoying the feel of the cool night air against her skin. “I want to talk about your shapeshifting,” she said.

“I don’t, but I’m not going to get a choice here, am I?” Eagle muttered, glowering at the ground.

“You’ve gained it back. Doesn’t that mean you’d be accepted back into your home realm?”

“No.” Eagle shook her head. “Gaining that doesn’t negate the fact that I killed my mentor. That’s a crime that is punishable by death.”

_ Right. That. _ “I’m sorry about that,” Svarla said automatically.

“Don’t be. He was an asshole.”

_ Oh. _ Svarla was taken aback momentarily by the answer, but… that was very Eagle. “Well, then, I’m not so sorry.”

Eagle shrugged. She glanced over and sighed. “You’re not gonna go away until I tell you more, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Gods around,” Eagle muttered, shaking her head. “Okay. Fine. Listen up, ‘cause I’m only gonna say all this once.”

Svarla turned where she sat, crossing her legs, and nodded.

“I’m a… princess, I guess. Elves are immortal, so elvish children are rare. Elves aren’t allowed to have children unless another elf dies. It’s so that we don’t overrun the boundaries of our realms. Anyway, my father, the Prince, decided to spawn me for some reason, and while elves aren’t um - aren’t usually more or less powerful by nature, he’s got some punch behind his words. He disliked me from the start when I was able to think and decided maybe I'd prefer being a - you call them princesses, right? - that, instead of a Prince. So, like, terrible start, right from the get-go. Also, I sucked at paying attention. So he only revealed me to the Court and shit when he had to. They weren't pleased, but like, what are you gonna do, go against him?”

This all made sense; most of this was information Svarla knew, though hadn’t been aware of their careful control over their population.

“So anyway, everybody had big expectations for a Prince’s kid.” Eagle snorted. “Get trained up so I can rule or whatever. Start me off with shapeshifting, that’ll be easy. That doesn’t even alter the world around me, just me. I mean, of course I knew some things already, but it was just - defensive things, like what to do if you get hit with magic, or whatever. So the Prince set me up with a master shapechanger, only it turns out he was not a good teacher, just a good warrior, and he didn’t know jack shit about how to help someone be a controlled shifter. So I ended up as a therianthrope, and he ended up dead, and then instead of being killed for that murder I got exiled because I’m related to the Prince.” She paused. “Black mark on him, by the way. He might not get to be Prince anymore if something like that happens again.”

“People can just stop being Prince?”

“If you’re killed or you step down, yeah,” Eagle said, bringing her gaze up to meet Svarla’s. “They’ve got nothing against killing their own rulers.”

It sounded… strict. “Is it like that in all Principalities?”

“Just Skyhaven.”

That was nothing like Eagle’s wild, free power. It was rigid, controlled, not what Svarla had expected at all from a place called Skyhaven. “You don’t fit there at all,” she said, without thinking.

“Yeah, I kind of got that,” Eagle muttered sourly.

“No - no, that’s not what I meant,” Svarla corrected, holding out her hands. “No! I mean - I don’t think that place is right for you. You’d be - suppressed, maybe, or… caged. If you were there.”

Eagle paused. “Yeah,” she finally said, “I would be.”

“So maybe what you needed wasn’t more control, but less?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Svarla tilted her head back and forth, thinking. “If their rules and laws and guidelines just made your power flare up and go everywhere, maybe removing those would calm it down. It’s just a different shape from them. This doesn’t make any sense.” She paused. “They tried to force you, so you sprang back. If no one’s forcing you to do something, you settle.”

Eagle peered closely at her. “That’s a neat take on it,” she said finally, raising one skeptical eyebrow. “And I’d say you’re full of shit, but I’m pretty sure you’re right.”

Oh. That was surprisingly easy. Svarla blinked at her.

“You didn’t make me do anything,” Eagle continued. “You only offered, and said I didn’t have to, and asked nicely, and didn’t pressure. And now I’m here, and I can be a big bird instead of a monster.” She paused, glanced down, and spoke again, more quietly this time. “I can be something more than a monster.”

Svarla bit her lip. Suddenly Eagle seemed smaller, less bravado and more uncertainty, with a kind of budding pride in her ability to be something worthy of respect. “Oh,” Svarla said. “Oh, no, Eagle… you were never a monster.”

“Seriously?” Eagle glanced up again, anger back in her eyes. “I ate people’s hearts.”

“Well, we all have bad days.”

Eagle snorted and choked out a laugh, surprised. “Uh, what?”

Svarla shook her head, spreading her hands.. “The point is, Eagle, just because someone said you’re a monster doesn’t make you one. And you’re not - you’ve been kind and selfless and good for weeks now. You gave away your _ life _ so that you could help me! If you hadn’t done that, I would have died today.” She shivered. It felt less real when she couldn’t feel pain, and that was disturbing to her. “You literally saved my life. More than once! I would’ve died at Blackrock if you hadn’t come with me, if you hadn’t made me get up on Riptide and fly out of there.”

Eagle was silent.

“You’ve saved Samundra, too; it’s clear that Sir Ilian was going for them, and if we hadn’t intervened they’d probably have been killed, as great of a warrior as they are.” Samundra hadn’t done much actual fighting, but from the way they handled Breakwater, it was clear they knew what they were doing. Svarla shifted to sit on her knees and leaned forwards, trying to see into Eagle’s face. “Listen. You’ve done so much good and you’ve done it all for nothing. For no payment, for no help, just because you wanted to. That makes you even more of a hero than I am. I’m doing this out of duty; you’re doing this out of compassion.”

“Oh, don’t call it that,” Eagle muttered, but she swiped one hand over her eyes and looked away. “I’m - it’s not because I want to be noble or whatever. I’m doing it for you. You helped me too.” She paused. Svarla opened her mouth to speak, but Eagle cut her off. “I was doing it because I owed you, but now I just - now I just want to help you. Only you. I don’t care about the rest of the world. You’re the only one that matters.”

Startled, Svarla pulled her head back. “I -”

“Shut up. You care about saving this world, so I have to, too,” Eagle went on, eyes glittering in the firelight. “I’m gonna help you because you’re important.”

Svarla wasn’t - she wasn’t important. She was just the Knight; the one who mattered was the heir, the monarch, Samundra. “I’m not the royal here,” she said softly.

“Does it matter?” Eagle countered, fiercely, and took a deep breath. “You’re the one I care about. More than anyone else. That means more than any throne.”

Svarla swallowed hard, searching Eagle’s expression. She was scared and furious - no, not furious. Defiant. Hopeful. “Okay,” Svarla said softly, and scooted forwards on the sand, wrapping her arms around Eagle’s torso. The elf buried her face in Svarla’s shoulder and hugged her back, small, strong, burning warm like she always was. Svarla had only ever physically touched Eagle in her monster or bird forms, but even humanoid she retained the incredible heat that she radiated in her other shapes. Svarla turned her head and kissed the top of Eagle’s head, on the soft downy feathers between her crests.

The fire crackled fiercely, sending a shower of sparks flying upwards into the clear night sky. Samundra glanced up, saw them, and looked back down to the wing they were working on, carefully reattaching the feather fibers together with their fingers.

“I’ll take watch,” Eagle eventually said, pulling her face from Svarla’s shirt. She shook her head, fluffing up the feathers. “I don’t need to sleep like you do.”

“Okay,” Svarla said, feeling very soft and obliging. She reluctantly let go of Eagle and sat back, sand crunching where she moved.

Eagle opened her mouth to say something, paused, and said, “I’d say I’d die for you, but I already have.”

With that, she turned and fluttered as a small nighthawk into the darkness, winging up to the top of a rocky outcropping. There she dropped back into her form, gray eyes shining when the light caught them, and remained. Svarla fell asleep not long after. She did not take extra precautions, did not wake the entire night. Eagle was watching. Eagle would keep them safe.


	17. Battlefield

The desert was nearly impassable.

“If only we could all fly,” Samundra sighed, casting a glance towards Riptide. “It would be so much faster and easier for all of us.”

“I cannot carry three people,” Riptide snapped. “I cannot carry two, either, if Eagle can fly. You combined are too heavy. There is no changing that.”

“Wait,” Eagle said, stepping up from where she’d been kicking sand into the remains of the fire. “Wait, wait, wait. You don’t  _ have _ to carry two people.” She glanced over to Svarla. “I’ll carry you.”

“Sorry?” the horse said.

In response Eagle poofed into the form of the giant eagle she’d been the day before, glossy golden-brown feathers and sharp gray eyes. She bent down, spreading one wing to allow Svarla to step up onto her back.

Riptide could carry Samundra; Eagle could carry Svarla. In this manner they crossed the plains and desert in a fraction of the time it would have taken if they had walked, sailing on the hot dry winds and tasting when they became saturated with moisture from the north and south, rain that sated the parched land.

It was a matter of days before Ruval appeared. It was first a smudge on the horizon, then a hazy blot, then a distant city, all within one day.

What they also saw was the black stain of an army spread out across the plains and riverland outside of Ruval, where the Ahofu curved down and gave the city its ports. They set down in the forest outside and Eagle scouted ahead.

It was as they feared. The army was a shambling mass of corpses raised by Lady Allweather’s vile magic, and they would have to fly over it to reach the palace. It was lucky they’d be able to fly over most of it and get safely into the city to reach Lady Allweather.

Or… not. They plotted their attack - Svarla used her minimal knowledge of the palace layout to plan a way in - and in the morning, when they prepared, the clouds were low and flickering with lightning, and when Eagle tried to go up, she got just above the treeline before having to dive again; a bolt narrowly missed her and cracked into a tree, setting it on fire.

“We can’t fly,” she gasped, when she’d made her way back to the group. “She’ll strike us down.”

Lady Allweather’s control of the skies grew with how close to her they got. Over Ruval it was a swirling mass of circling clouds, belying her presence in the city. She knew exactly where they were and she knew they had to get into the city.

“So how do we do this?” Samundra asked.

Svarla smiled grimly. “Same way I stormed my last fortress,” she said. “We’ll go in by the front gates.”

“You want to… you want to fight the whole army?” Samundra stared, looking mildly horrified. “I knew you were brave, but that’s insane.”

Parhelion, at Svarla’s side, hummed so loudly the sheath rattled off her armor. “It won’t be as hard as it seems.”

So they strode out of the treeline towards the army. Riptide stayed behind - it was useless in a large-scale fight, useless on the ground, and it couldn’t fly. It would come to them when it could; it would watch from afar.

The good thing about having undead soldiers was that none of them could use a bow; the bodies lacked the coordination to wield such tools, and relied on sheer numbers to overwhelm their foes. The bad thing was everything else about them, because they could not feel pain, and they did not get wounded like living soldiers did.

“Two can play at that game,” Svarla muttered, drawing Parhelion.

It thrummed like a harp string as she brought it through the air, colors flaring along the blade, rippling like fire. It drew the attention of the army, and she strode towards them, standing tall, unafraid.

_ I know I will succeed. I know what I am doing. I know they will fall before me. _

Samundra followed her, axe at the ready, flanking to her left; Eagle was on her right. The army began to move towards them.

The first few soldiers fell easily; they didn’t strike with weapons, and Parhelion burned them when it made contact. Svarla kept it up, wary, as she moved, and it seared the flesh it touched and blinded the undead nearby.

“Nelira, guide me,” she whispered, driving forwards. “Nelira, lady of Justice, be at my side.”

Overhead, the crows swirled above the army, silent save for the fluttering of their feathers.

After the first three or four it became a whirlwind of vicious activity. Samundra plunged into the fray, Breakwater swinging black and dripping through the horde. Their braids whipped around them; Svarla swore she heard the sound of the ocean when they struck.Eagle leaped, claws out, into the mass of bodies, and as she did so she rippled into her creature form and began to rip them to shreds.

They resolutely made their way towards Ruval, cutting a swath of destruction through Lady Allweather’s army. As Svarla had hoped, most of the mass was too slow to react to them, so if they moved quickly enough they’d be able to make it through the army without having to face  _ literally _ the entire thing.

It was a plan that worked for a few minutes, until the wolves began to join the soldiers. The silent woods around Ruval had been cleaned of animals; Lady Allweather had not restricted the draft of her army to the people of the nation. Direwolves with their flesh rotting off charged inwards, were slammed aside by Eagle’s wings or cut down by Svarla or Samundra, but while the warriors were distracted, the rest of the army managed to move in - they didn’t go quickly enough.

Svarla realized too late that they were trapped when she glanced around and realized the three of them were in the center of a clear circle, surrounded on all sides by sagging faces and empty eyes. She swallowed hard. This was not the intended result.

Eagle collapsed back into humanoid form. “Uh, what do we do?” she said nervously, backing up against Svarla. Samundra joined them, back to theirs, and they looked for a way out. There was none.

Svarla took a deep breath and raised Parhelion to the sky.

The clouds whirled above her angrily, but through them, a hole opened up - a split in the clouds, a break in the gray. Through it shone a beam of light that lanced downwards and caught Parhelion’s blade, and in that moment it flared up so brightly Svarla had to look down and away, and Samundra and Eagle both cried out and hid their eyes.

A wave of light pulsed out from the blade, rippling over the army; above the blade and to the sides Svarla saw reflected ripples of rainbow light, an incandescent halo that shone a hundred meters in every direction. She kept her grip on the blade; it was growing hot in her hand.

Another pulse of light. This time, the undead staggered, and Svarla felt the heat grow more intense. She kept her grip on the blade.

“What are you doing?!” she heard Samundra call, but she didn’t answer; she kept the blade pointed towards the sun.

The third pulse physically knocked the nearby soldiers down, and Svarla realized the blade was gathering light around it, glowing. The heat vanished; she knew it had crossed from discomfort into pain, and knew it would damage her if she kept it up. But the army - 

She needed to fight Lady Allweather. She wrenched the sword out of the beam of light - now it shone on her, and her armor - and swing it down to the ground, burying the tip in the soil and point towards Ruval’s outer wall. A brilliant flash of light went up from the blade and it shot away over the ground towards the wall in a flash; when Svarla blinked the afterimage out of her eyes, she realized it had scorched a three-meter wide pathway through the army and the ground itself, the black soil smoking. Every undead within a hundred meters of her was lying still on the ground; the rest of the army was shambling closer, but kept falling over the bodies of their comrades.

“Go,” Svarla said, and they ran. Eagle leaped into her monstrous form and bounded along the ground like a giant cat, and actually paused long enough for Svarla to climb onto her shoulders. Samundra was much taller and sprinted alongside the elf, just barely keeping pace with her.

It was like this that they reached the city walls and found that the flash of light had slammed into the stone and burst through it, creating a full hole through two meters of solid stone. Svarla didn’t question it; she stepped through the hole, over fragments of rubble and mortar, and into Ruval.

It was nothing like she remembered. Even the smell was different - the stink before had been muck and sewage and and dirt and animals, but now it was overpowered by the scent of rot. Rotting vegetation, rotting wood, rotting flesh. She coughed when it hit her.

Samundra paused, looking around in horror. “This is my city?” they said, softly.

It was dark. The streets were gloomy and empty; no one was about. Svarla was shedding light in a small radius, rippling over the cobblestones, but where she did not step the shadows devoured color and life. Wind scoured the streets, blowing spare shreds of paper through the alleyways and slamming shutters open and closed where they hadn’t been fastened down.

It was completely silent otherwise. Anyone in the city alive was hiding.

“To the palace,” Svarla murmured, and they went.

They couldn’t run; they couldn’t disturb the quiet. It was eerie, to see this city that had been so full of life stripped.

The palace was only a few minutes away. Svarla held her heart in her throat, feeling the pulse of it against her skin, and from the rapid breath of Eagle’s giant form she was nervous too.

Samundra, however, was not. They strode forwards without hesitation, expression set, Breakwater gripped in one hand. Their dark eyes were fixed on their goal.

The gate through the palace walls was open; they were expected.

“Your mistake,” Svarla murmured. They passed through it and into a half-way world between life and death.


	18. Lady Allweather

Color slipped sideways, throwing the world into grayscale; only Svarla and her armor retained their hues, and they were dimmed and thrown out of focus. Eagle shivered. Samundra narrowed their eyes and headed forwards. The guards that would normally stand by the entryway to the main hall were gone; the door was not barred.

Svarla slipped off Eagle’s back and stepped forwards. “Let me open it,” she said, getting in front of Samundra. “It’s not safe.”

Samundra stepped back. Behind them, Eagle crouched nervously, staying in her monstrous form. Svarla pushed the doors open and stepped in, one hand on Parhelion’s hilt.

The columns supporting the sides of the ceiling remained, but the roof had been torn off. Above the hall and its smooth mosaic floors and long carpet swirled the eye of the storm, thick gray-black clouds that shivered with lightning.

Sitting in the throne at the far end of the hall, in the sole beam of light that pierced the clouds above, was a woman in a simple black dress. Blond hair spilled down her shoulders; her blue eyes were the same as Sir Ilians, but piercing and icy. One leg was crossed over the other; she was waiting patiently for them. 

“It took you quite some time to get here,” Lady Myra Allweather said, folding her hands in her lap. “But you made it. I was wondering how much of a holdup my people would give you.”

“You have no people in this land,” Samundra called, stepping forwards. They raised Breakwater, narrowing their eyes; it shimmered a deep blue in the light from Svarla’s armor, but faded to gray elsewhere. “You do not have the right to sit upon that throne.”

“And who are you to tell me this?” Lady Allweather said, smiling softly.

“I am Ulmey Padhrudah, heir to the throne of Kendali, and I have come to claim my place as monarch,” Samundra called, voice steady. “I will give you one chance to step away and give up peacefully before I execute you for treason.”

Lady Allweather threw her head back and laughed. Ulmey stared, unnerved; when she quieted, the queen shook her head and smiled. “Treason?” she said, expression caught between amusement and pity. “I’m the queen, child. What do you really think you’re going to do to me?”

“Kill you,” Ulmey snarled, and started forwards. Svarla went with them, and Eagle leaped over top, spreading her wings and heading down the hall.

Lady Allweather stood in a flash and raised one hand. A bolt of lightning leaped downwards from the clouds and cracked into Eagle’s form, sending her flying sideways; she was knocked out of her monster form as she went and slammed into the far wall where it met the ground, electricity crackling around her form. The impact shattered the floor. She lay still.

Svarla was stunned speechless for a moment, horrified.

“Please,” Lady Allweather said, sounding bored. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Ulmey let out a wild yell and charged forwards. Lady Allweather brought down another bolt, but this time Ulmey dodged it and leaped to the side, and the bolt scorched the carpet where they had been standing. Svarla ran for the queen as well, Parhelion raised, and then they were close enough that Lady Allweather had to fight back.

The sleeves of her dress hid metal bracers that encased her entire forearm; Svarla brought Parhelion down towards her and she raised one arm and blocked the blow with a reverberation that sang through Svarla’s whole body. She whipped the sword back and in again, and this time Lady Allweather smiled and vanished, reappearing in the center of the floor.

Ulmey had just reached the throne. They whirled and  _ threw _ Breakwater, blade whirling sideways through the air, and the handle end slapped into Lady Allweather’s side and sent the axe clattering away across the floor. The heir raised one hand, eyes narrowed, and the axe shimmered away and reappeared in their hand.

Svarla almost turned and went for Lady Allweather again. Almost.

But instead she turned and stepped into the light that the queen had been sitting in. It washed over her and her armor, warm and welcoming, and she raised her sword again - but this time, she did not point the blade towards the sun. She pointed it towards Lady Allweather, and let the light bounce off the blade and stream towards her in a bright, thin line of light.

It caught the queen in the shoulder. Ulmey was striding towards her, swinging Breakwater around to slam into her bracers over and over - she was blocking every blow, still smiling. The line of light caught on Lady Allweather’s shoulder and she staggered back with a cry as it burned through her dress and into her flesh. She turned her face to Svarla and hissed, beautiful face twisted into a visage of hatred, and the light abruptly vanished as the hole in the clouds cut out. Svarla was the only sunlight left.

She stepped off the dias and towards the queen, Parhelion at the ready. Ulmey pulled Breakwater back and grabbed it with both hands, jabbing it several times towards the queen; she dodged backwards, hands up, eyes wide. Svarla moved in.

And then on the other side of the room Eagle stirred, groaned, and pushed herself up out of the crater she’d fallen into, strewn with broken marble and mosaic tiles. The lightning swarmed over her feathers, and she swiped a hand over her mouth and came away with a smear of deep blue blood. “I may have lost my father’s name,” she shouted, hoarsely, swaying where she stood, “but I have not lost his power!”

With a screech, she leaped back into her monster form and charged forwards, body alight with electricity. Lady Allweather spun, eyes wide, and stared; it was clear that she had  _ not _ intended for Eagle to survive the blow. She raised her hand to bring down another bolt and this time Eagle let it hit her… and join the sparks that swarmed through her wings and over her tail, cracking off as she lashed it back and forth.

“Hmm,” Lady Allweather said. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Ulmey took the opportunity to slam Breakwater’s head into her stomach. She wheezed out a breath and Svarla came in, bringing Parhelion’s blade into her shoulder; she raised both hands as she stumbled and sent a blast of force outwards.

Svarla shielded herself with Parhelion’s blade, and this time, Ulmey raised Breakwater and cut through the magic as well. They stepped forwards, swung the blade around, and buried it up to the hilt on one side in Lady Allweather’s side as she stood there, shocked.

She hissed - did she not feel the pain? - and raised her hand, gripping Ulmey’s arm. They shrieked as smoke went up from where she was holding on; Svarla let out a yell and cracked Parhelion’s blade into her wrist, cutting it to the bone. She let go, and Ulmey staggered back, clutching their forearm. A black mark in the shape of Lady Allweather’s hand was burned into their dark skin, still steaming.

Lady Allweather grinned. “Marked for death,” she said, and raised her hand again.

Svarla swept Parhelion up and cut it off.

The sword sang as it sliced through bone and tendon, and Lady Allweather stared, mouth open. Behind her, Eagle lowered her head and a bolt of lightning leaped from her shoulders to the queen’s body. She stiffened and gasped as it jolted through her system, paralyzing her momentarily.

Ulmey regained their composure and took a few heavy steps forward. They kicked Lady Allweather in the knee, knocking her to the ground, and before anyone could do anything else they raised Breakwater one-handed and brought it down on her neck.

It took them two strikes to full remove her head, but once they had, Svarla immediately saw color begin to seep back into the world. The storm overhead started to clear, and Eagle let out a long hiss and let the electricity around her dissipate. Light dappled the marble floor of the throne room.

Ulmey looked down, panting, and rested Breakwater’s head on the floor. “That’s taken care of,” they managed.

Svarla nodded, unable to speak. She slid Parhelion back into its sheath and stepped over, gulping air; Eagle dropped her form and stumbled over, still unsteady.

“I thought you were dead,” Svarla said, to Eagle.

“She thought she could kill a Skyhaven elf with lightning?” Eagle spat, looking at the ruins of Lady Allweather’s corpse. “Pathetic.”

There was a sound at the door; they all looked up. Riptide poked its head through the open archway and looked in. “Oh,” it said. “You did it without me.”

“Yes,” Ulmey said, with an exhausted smile. “Come in here, though. You deserve to see what we did to her.”

The horse trotted in, shuffling its wings, and stared at Lady Allweather’s corpse with what appeared to be  _ immense _ satisfaction. “That’s what you get,” it finally said, “for messing with the Padhrudah line.”

Svarla grinned and shook her head. She turned to Ulmey.

“Ulmey Padhrudah,” she began, “I offer to you your throne. Claim it, and your kingdom.”

Ulmey rolled their eyes. “Please,” they sighed. “To you, I’m Samundra. I told you, Ulmey is my name for when I’m trouble.”

But they turned anyways and walked towards the dias, left arm still smoking. They stepped up onto the dias and viewed the throne critically for a moment, then turned and seated themselves, looking out into the room.

Svarla knelt. Riptide knelt beside her, and Eagle, reluctantly, also did so.

“No,” Samundra said. “You don’t kneel to me.”

“Majesty, you are our monarch. Of course we kneel to you,” Svarla said, eyes on the floor.

She heard footsteps approach her, and then Samundra took her by the chin and tipped her head up to look into her eyes. “You do not kneel to me,” the monarch repeated, soft and gentle. “You are my equal, Svarla. You are my knight. Do you understand?”

“...yes,” Svarla said, and couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

Samundra nodded, returning the grin. “Good,” they said, and stepped back, dropping Svarla’s chin and offering a hand to help her up. “Now, can we get this corpse out of my throne room? It’s going to stink.”


	19. Epilogue

The coronation of Ulmey Padhrudah was a celebration most known for how, rather than throw a week-long festival, the monarch’s money went into rebuilding their city. It hadn’t been so devastated since the start of the era, and it could be improved, they said, and they stood by their word: by the end of the year Ruval was a shining jewel in the kingdom of Kendali. The monarch themselves, Majesty Padhrudah, helped rebuild the roof of the palace and the structure of many of the destroyed buildings of the city, working amongst their citizens to bring their city back to life.

Ventash’s royal line was gone, destroyed mostly by Lady Allweather and then killed when she died. Rather than take on reign of the kingdom, Majesty Padhrudah chose to turn it over to a council of representatives of the country, and leave it to its own devices.

Through it all Svarla was there. From the day her name was etched into the wall where the names of all her predecessors were, she was there with Samundra, golden armor gleaming and sword thrumming at her side. Through all dangers she stayed with the monarch, aboard a great golden eagle with wings as wide as the sky.

“Why do you stay?” She asked Eagle once.

“You need me,” Eagle said simply. “And I need you.”

That was a good enough answer for her. She stayed with Samundra out of duty; Eagle stayed with her out of love.

At night she would walk the halls and whisper the words of the oath. They all meant something, the chant that was forever stamped into her heart, but standing strong for Kendali, with Eagle at her back, one line stuck out to her, one line reverberated in her soul.

“For my life, to the day of my death and beyond, past when my spirit is forgotten and I become nothing but an etching in the wall, I am yours.”


End file.
